


I Never Promised I'd Play Fair

by Espoir



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: (not an AU but so many bloody references), Angst, Based on the Titanic, Declarations Of Love, Establish(ing) Relationship, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Happy Ending, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Major Character Injury, Military Backstory, Modern Era, Near Death Experience, Panic, Protectiveness, Sacrificial attitudes, Sinking Ship, The whole shabang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Espoir/pseuds/Espoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Unless this ship is fucking sinking you do not have permission to break down the door!” Arthur yells, voice still rough with sleep, but seriously what the hell-</p><p>There is an ominous pause.</p><p>And then Eames breaks down the door.'</p><p> A job goes spectacularly wrong in the middle of the Atlantic and, for once in their lives, Arthur and Eames end up playing the good guys. They fall for the trick, fall for temptation and ultimately, finally, fall for each other.</p><p>(Based shamelessly on the Titanic- except there's no major character death.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm Sexy and I Know it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rhubarbgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhubarbgirl/gifts).



> EDIT: 8/07/2016
> 
> Oh man. I wrote this so long ago now. It was my first Epic Length fic, and you can so tell reading this in comparison to stuff I've written since :') I like to think my writing style has improved quite a bit since here? But I guess that's for other people to judge as well. I did have a crippling moment of self-doubt and think about taking it down but someone commented out of the blue the other day to say they hadn't been able to stop smiling throughout the whole thing which was lovely to see, so I've decided to leave it.
> 
> I would suggest if this is the first of my fics you've come across to look at my other more recent works - but to be honest, I'm flattered anyone would enjoy anything I've written at any given point, so hell, you do you, and I'll just quietly cringe a little from the sidelines.

 “Absolutely not.” Arthur’s voice is like splintering ice.

Ariadne glances up from her doodling. Arthur is leant against a table on the opposite side of the office space in what _could_ be mistaken for a reasonably casual, relaxed position.

Except it really isn’t.

 Arthur’s entire body is one hard line, arms folded in impossible knots across his chest and Ariadne swears she can actually _hear_ his teeth grinding.

As per usual, it seems Eames is responsible.

Eames leans back in his swivel chair, the picture of self-assurance, and reaches out with one foot to toe Arthur lightly on the shin.

“Best plan we’ve thought of so far,” he says easily, a smile creeping across his face, “or should I say, _I’ve_ thought of.”

Arthur narrows his eyes dangerously. “Well then you’ll just have to think of a better one, _Mr. Eames_.” The words are cutting, but Eames doesn’t look in the slightest bit undeterred. He positively beams.

“Care to share?” Ariadne pipes up before Arthur does something murderous, “or is this team comprised of only two people now?”

Arthur nods and opens his mouth to start on what looks like a rant of epic proportions but Eames gets there first, reaching across to pat Arthur’s knee and saying quietly- “I’ll explain shall I pet?”

Arthur’s glare is terrifying.

Eames rolls up onto his feet and strides over to the board, immediately animated.

“So, let’s do a little summary of what we know so far- Mark Scott- one of the most influential and wealthiest politicians in the States to date, is a very, very ill man-“

“How ill?” Ariadne interrupts, curious.

“Dead-within-the-next-9-months ill,” Arthur says, flicking violently through his sheaf of notes.

“Ah,” says Ariadne.

“And as you’ve now shared your contribution with the class Arthur, do allow me to continue,” Eames says mildly, before turning back to Ariadne, apparently unaware of Arthur’s death glare on the back of his head.

“Right-ho, so we’ve established that Scott’s not got long left. And his will, rather unusually, was changed some years ago so that his _brother,_ Ryan Scott, our charming employer” Eames gestures helpfully to the mug shot blue tacked to the board, “inherits everything- property, savings, shares- the lot. Worth in excess of $450 million. Tad controversial as it was always assumed that they hated each other’s guts.”

Ariadne lets out a low whistle. That figure is new to her, and only piles on the pressure to what Arthur repeatedly assured them would always be an extremely high-profile case.

Eames nods approvingly. “Well- exactly. And, as you can imagine, Ryan is rather pleased with how things have turned out for him- he was always one for the dramatics it would appear. However, Mark’s son, James, has recently made a re-appearance after disgracing the entire family by getting some poor 15 year old pregnant. According to news reports, the father-son relationship is steadily repairing.”

“So we go under with Scott as the dreamer and convince him of his son’s unreliability, and how Ryan is the true beneficiary through various personal triggers, et cetera et cetera- a simple inception,” Ariadne waves a non-committal hand. They’ve been through this hundreds of times before, but it doesn’t make her feel any better about it. There is still a niggling bit of her morally intact conscience that’s telling her ‘ _you complete and utter meanie’_.

“What is it?”  Eames prompts. _Damn him_ , Ariadne thinks, _damn him_ _and his annoyingly good knack for reading people._

“Don’t you feel kinda bad? I mean, I know this is the job, and it’s pretty well-paid, but we’re destroying the man’s relationship with his only son...and, yeah. I guess I’m just not quite as used to it as you two are yet-“

“Not common knowledge,” Arthur pipes up immediately, glancing up from his notes, “but it’s highly likely that James has actually gotten four other girls pregnant since he turned 16, most of them barely legal, and has managed to worm his way out of providing any financial support-“

“Fuck him,” Ariadne says abruptly, “I take it all back. Let’s screw Scott’s mental image of him so much that he never wants to speak to the twat again.”

 “No inception of such personal proportions is ever ‘simple’ but yes, that’s the general idea.” Eames gives her a kind smile, “though this is where we come to our snag in the proceedings- getting to him in the first place.”

“I thought Arthur had a plan at the embassy...?” Even as she spoke, Arthur shakes his head, brow furrowed in frustration.

“Security’s impossible to evade. We’ll need at least half-an-hour topside if the dream is two levels deep, but he’s a high-status politician-“

“And Americans are paranoid bastards at the best of times,” Eames chips in, throwing Arthur a teasing grin. Arthur pointedly ignores him.

“So how are we going to be able to do anything if we can’t get within 10 feet?” Ariadne asks, pushing onwards. As much as Eames and Arthur’s banter was entertaining, it did tend to delay things a little when they got distracted by each other.

“Ah, glad you asked m’dear-,” Eames says, seemingly delighted, “because this is where Arthur and I have fallen foul to a little disagreement. Scott will be taking a short break in the form of a cruise from Southampton to New York. It’s a journey of a practical nature admittedly, but it’s also 5 days of un-interrupted _mingling_ with the fellow passengers. A perfect opportunity to gain his trust, observe any other personal habits that may be useful, and perhaps get past some of his ridiculous security. ” Eames falls back down into his chair and leans dangerously far back, spinning his poker chip between finger and thumb.

“Or,” Arthur mutters darkly, “we could just drug him. It’s too complicated to try and sedate him onboard, there are too many unknown possibilities, too many chances that the whole thing could fuck up. If our covers aren’t good enough, they could figure out we’re lying and there would be no escape route in the middle of the Atlantic.”

There is a pregnant pause, the air heavy.

“I like Eames’ plan,” Ariadne says cheerily. Eames gives a silent air-punch and Arthur closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose and looks for all the world like he is trying extremely hard _not_ to disembowel somebody.

“2 votes to 1- proposal passed,” Eames says sombrely. Ariadne stifles her smile for Arthur’s sake.

Suddenly Arthur stands up, clipping his briefcase closed, and shrugging on his jacket. He paces briskly across the room, and stops just short of reaching the door, turning back to survey the abrupt silence.

“Fine- we run with Eames’ plan, I can appreciate it makes better logistical sense.”

Eames looks genuinely surprised.

“ _But_ \- only on two conditions. Firstly, that Ariadne doesn’t come aboard, “ Ariadne makes an indignant noise of protest, but Arthur shoots her a serious look and says, “it’s for your own safety” in a way that leaves no doubt that he means it.

“Secondly-“ Arthur pauses briefly, casting a glance at Eames, “I book the suites.”

Eames laughs, but there is something slightly guarded about it, as though he’s more relieved than he wants to let on. “Scared I’ll forget darling?”

“Not at all- but I know that you’d only book the one room. With the one bed.” And with that Arthur turns on the spot and disappears out of the door.

“Bugger,” Eames mutters under his breath, “my master plan is foiled once again.” Ariadne grins, and throws a scrunched up ball of discarded blue-prints at his head. Eames meets her eye sheepishly, and she shakes her head in amused disapproval.

Despite being on remarkably talkative form as of late, Eames is uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of the afternoon.

Ariadne can’t help but notice how his gaze lingers on the door long after Arthur has left.

 

* * *

 

                                                                                     

_"...everybody stops and they starin' at me, I got passion in my pants and I ain’t afraid to show it, show it, show it- I’m Sexy and-“_

Arthur grapples with his winter coat to receive the call before the ring-tone can fully reach it's mortifying chorus, jamming the receive button violently and glaring at an amused passer-by. He doesn’t bother to look at the caller ID. He doesn’t need to.

Eames had set the ring-tone himself after all.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Arthur bites sarcastically down the phone, scowling at another man who had very nearly walked into him. Fucking incompetent Londoners.

“Arthur?” Eames sounds hesitant.

“Who else would it be?”

 Arthur’s feeling irritable. He hasn’t slept properly for days, he’s hungry and he can feel the nagging twinges of an impending migraine. His mood is not improved by having been caught out on the Underground at rush hour. The swarm of people hems him in on all sides, jostling and shoving towards the trains. While Arthur usually enjoys being caught in crowds, revels in the anonymity they provide, the noise and oppressive heat is making his head hurt.

The pause has lasted a little too long. Arthur checks to see if Eames hasn’t hung up- it’s unlike him to not have dropped some cheery innuendo 10 seconds into his call.

“I was just ringing to check if you’re alright to go ahead with this. With the plan.”

“I said yes didn’t I? Of course, I fucking am- it’s for the _job_ Eames, it’s not my first choice but for once in your life I think you might be right. It’s _necessary_.” Arthur is failing to understand any motivation behind this call other than to annoy him. Admittedly good-looking Eames may be, and Arthur would be a fool to try and deny it, but he really could be fantastically irritating.

“No you condescending prick, that’s not what I meant,” Eames says, voice suddenly so soft Arthur nearly misses it.

 “I meant on a personal level. I know I can be a bit of a prat at the best of times, but earlier you seemed unusually... touchy- no offence intended. I don’t want to coerce you into something you’re not comfortable with. I am well aware that this sort of thing is more my area of expertise that yours.”

Arthur is torn between feeling deeply offended and grudgingly flattered by Eames’ concern. It’s a well-known fact that while Eames relishes in the opportunity to ‘forge’ in the real world, Arthur would only take on a role himself as an absolute last resort.  It’s oddly comforting that Eames thought to ask. Not that Arthur needs any comforting.

“Christ Eames, I’m not some terrified new recruit- I’ve acted when the job’s required it before.”

“Oh I know pet, I know,” Eames light laugh is clear down the phone. Arthur finds himself smiling. He has always preferred Eames on his own, when he has nothing to prove to and no-one to impress. The slight undercurrent of worry that Arthur is sensing is strangely reassuring too. He forgets he’s not the only one who’s got his back.

“Where are you right now? Sounds like a bloody riot.”

“It might as well be, I knew I should have taken a cab instead of the subway-“

“ _Underground_ Arthur, it’s the London _Underground_ ,” Eames tuts.

“Oh I am so _dreadfully_ sorry,” Arthur says in his best refined pronunciation English.

He can practically _hear_ Eames’ eyebrow raise.

“I’d stick to the research if I were you-” Eames’ grin is obvious in his voice.

“Piss off-”

“-let the professional take care of the accents-”

“Says the man who can’t manage basic French-“

“I can order a sandwich and threaten to shoot- I believe that’s quite sufficient in our line of work,” Eames says haughtily.

Arthur shakes his head disbelievingly, before realising Eames can’t see him. “Malheureusement, vous serez toujours un enfant de salope.”

Eames makes a distinctly unimpressed noise.

“In the words of the immortal Yusuf, ‘ha bloody ha’.”

 Arthur smirks, and they lapse into quiet.

“As for earlier,” Arthur says, already relaxing into the ease of conversation with Eames, despite the fact he’s currently elbowing his way onto a train, “well it’s been a fucking long day- I’m hungry, tired and I swear I’ve got a migraine coming. I’m sorry if I took it out on you.”

There is another pause. It isn’t as though they never talk like this, on late nights when Arthur is feeling depressingly alone and makes some excuse to call Eames, or when Eames calls him for no doubt the same reason. It isn’t as though they actually hate each other, that’s not the case at all. But Arthur isn’t prone to off-loading this sort of personal bullshit in Eames’ direction. He blames the fact Eames’ voice is deceptively warm and gentle in comparison to the hubbub of the Underground, and that Arthur is running on two hours of sleep.

“Not at all,” Eames says, accent lilting in the endearing way it does sometimes, slipping into another time, another voice belonging to someone Eames had once pretended to be. “I think I owe you an apology as well, for being... unreasonably prickish today.”

Arthur scoffs outwardly but something in his chest curls up, tight and warm.

“Although pet, and I hate to nit-pick, but it’s ‘ _my_ -graine’ darling, not ‘ _me-_ graine’. It makes you sound so terribly American.”

“And this insult to my heritage is helping said- _me_ -graine how?” Arthur asks mildly. He leans up against a window at the back of the carriage, swaying with the movement of the train as it stutters into life.

“I’m simply providing distraction,” Eames replies promptly, “best way to prevent these things coming on properly.”

“But you’ve been distracting me all day anyway.”

And they have reached the third pause in the conversation. Deliberate this time, as Eames considerately waits for Arthur to process what he’s just said.

“Oh fuck off,” Arthur says half-heartedly.

Eames laughs, amused static clamouring in Arthur’s ear.

“And you were doing so well at not making this conversation sexual,” Arthur sighs.

“I strive to make _everything_ sexual when it comes to you Arthur,” Eames says, and Arthur _knows_ he’s putting on the deep, husky voice and the rolling vowels but it still makes his stomach do ridiculous things for god’s sake-

“You’re impossible,” Arthur tells him steadily, “and you’re going to make me miss my stop.”

Eames sighs dramatically, back into his usual teasing form in full-force. “It’s tragic really, how people push me away on the basis that I am just _too_ much of a pleasant distraction-“

“Who said anything about pleasant?”

“- in their woefully sad little lives,” Eames continues mournfully, as though Arthur hadn’t spoken, “It’s the story of my life- Attract, Distract, Repel.”

“Your life sounds suspiciously like a mosquito-repellent advert,” Arthur says, biting back his smile and pushing towards the doors as the station slides into view through smudged windows, “and I really am going now.”

“Get some rest Arthur,” Eames says, suddenly serious again, “and if you decide you don’t want to go ahead with this-“

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Arthur sighs in exasperation, “I’ll see you at the docks on the 14th - 2pm. Good bye Mr. Eames.”

“Sweet dreams,” says Eames, because he’s a prick like that.

Arthur hangs up.

And if he gets funny looks from passer-bys up on the streets because he’s still smiling ten minutes later, well then, he’s got a fucking migraine.

He’s excused.


	2. The RMS Carpathia

The day of the embarkment dawns bright, crisp and clear like some sort of film cliché. There’s a bitter chill in the air, and Arthur wishes he’d thought to wear gloves. The fingers holding his suitcase are slowly go numb. He’s standing up on deck on Ariadne’s strict instructions, so she can ‘ _wave him off like they do in the movies_ ’.

 RMS Carpathia is an old-style boat; large and elegant with sweeping decks and four towering chimneys. It has an entirely modern engine, the website assures, but on informing Ariadne of this she swotted Arthur on the arm and told him to stop ruining her ‘Titanic Moment’. In many ways, the ship _does_ resemble the famous steam-liner- with two extravagant ballrooms, an on-ship library and 20’s themed 5-star restaurant.

 Unlike the Titanic however, there is no class system onboard- you’re either rich enough to afford a ticket, or you’re not on at all. And RMS Carpathia Cruise tickets are not cheap. Money isn’t an issue for them of course, but Arthur is already feeling tired at the prospect of spending 5 days with people far too wealthy for their own good.

 Ariadne is nothing more than a tiny speck down on the quayside, but she’s definitely waving. Arthur takes his free hand out of the warm confines of his pocket and gives her a little wave back. Even from this distance, he knows she’s grinning.

“Good-morning Arthur,” comes a smooth, low voice from directly behind him and Arthur jerks in surprise, spinning round and finding himself within inches of Eames’ face. Arthur feels oddly unsettled at how to act after their last conversation, and with Eames’ expression giving away nothing, he settles for the defensive.

Arthur’s brow furrows, and he takes a step back so he’s pressed up against the railing.

“Since when was invading my personal space part of the plan?” he says quietly, aware that an elderly couple are watching them with concern, and wanting to avoid causing a scene.

Eames smiles, and there’s an amused twinkle in his eyes that Arthur doesn’t like in the slightest.

“Since I had a wonderful twilight revelation and realised how _incredibly_ suspicious two men travelling separately but at the same time _together_ looks. Not to mention how much more awkward it makes explaining our situation to Scott when we try and get in on his little club. You left the role-playing part for me to organise didn’t you?”

Eames admittedly has a point, but Arthur’s thoughts are a little scattered by the close proximity of Eames’ mouth to his ear.

“We- we’re be business partners. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out,” Arthur whispers back, still very much aware of the elderly couple. He throws them what he hopes is a relaxed smile over Eames’ shoulder.

“Business partners? Who wine and dine with each other every night?”

Arthur scowls even while his chest tightens anticipatorily, “who said anything about wining and dining?”

Eames chuckles, a rich, warm sound and Jesus Christ, Arthur _feels_ it reverberate through him- being pressed up so fucking close.

“Arthur pet- you’re the one who’s done the research. Think about what’s going to _appeal_ to Mr. Scott, hmm?” Eames’ breath is warm against Arthur’s flushed cheeks.

Arthur feels like his insides are slowly being turned to liquid. He really, _really_ should move away before he does something that’s reckless, stupid and _entirely Eames’ fault_.

He dares a glance up and meets Eames’ steady gaze. Dimly, Arthur realises he’s never noticed how strangely beautiful Eames’ eyes are. Swirling blues and intermingling greens, flecked with grey. They look uncannily like the ocean.

Eames offers him a faintly sheepish smile.

And it clicks.

Of course.

Mark Scott, politician, billionaire, and huge supporter of the Same-Sex Marriage Legislation in the US. Hell, he was the one who practically brought it to Congress in the first place. He’s the main driving force behind the campaign to pass the Equality Act in 2019. Arthur has done his research, as well Eames knows; they both know how Scott likes to surround himself with a posse of people from all backgrounds so he can play off the ‘look-how-multi-cultural-and-acceptant-of-everyone-I-am’ idea. If you were controversial, and most importantly _rich_ , you were in.

So Eames is asking him to pretend.

Arthur stares.

Eames laughs, outright this time, eyes creasing up with mirth. His hands which have been resting on the railing behind Arthur, effectively boxing him in, come to rest on Arthur’s waist. Arthur automatically relaxes into it, unable to stop himself.

The elderly lady smiles at him, a small, understanding smile, then reaches for her husband’s hand and leads him on down along the deck. One of Eames’ warm fingers briefly touches bare skin where Arthur’s shirt has come un-tucked. It’s like a jolt of pure fucking _lightening_ to his senses.

_All just a game_ , Arthur’s brain helpfully reminds him.

And Eames is a much better actor than Arthur is.

“You better be fucking kidding,” Arthur says, keeping his voice level.

Eames laughs, and gives Arthur a cringe-worthy wink.

“’Fraid not pet-I’ve spent many long nights considering the options, and this is, hand-on-heart, the easiest and most potentially effective. If we play this right, he’ll be falling over himself to get to know us, I promise you,” and he doesn’t quite meet Arthur’s eye and Arthur flushes fiercely because _the bastard,_ that’s not even fucking _fair-_

Feeling a sudden, faintly desperate urge to get back some semblance of the upper hand, Arthur leans up, lips a hair-breadths from Eames’ skin. He pauses just long enough to murmur- “We do this, we do it on _my_ terms, which means I’d like my personal space back. Now, please.”

Eames lets go and takes a step back at once, expression stunned. He raises a hand slowly to his cheek, fingers brushing the spot where Arthur’s lips had almost been seconds earlier.

Arthur bites the inside of his mouth and looks quickly away before either of them can break the moment. He picks up his suitcase and heads on purposefully down the deck to the stairs. He doesn’t look back.

It’s only when Arthur is safely in the warmth of his cabin that he allows himself a small smile.

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur is faintly surprised when Eames doesn’t reappear to bother him for the rest of the afternoon. They both know that Scott won’t be emerging from his cabin until dinner, and so surveillance is completely off the cards- but Arthur was still half-expecting Eames to come and find him anyway.

Maybe Arthur scared him off.

Thinking back, Arthur has conceded that maybe, _maybe_ the near-kiss was a little too far. It certainly got Eames’ attention, which, at the time, was the whole point; but Arthur has a horrible feeling that he’d stepped across some intangible line that he wasn’t aware he’d been walking along.

The knock comes lightly on his cabin door at 8:30pm on the dot. Five taps in quick succession, followed by a pause, then two more taps. Arthur grins- it was so very Eames to do things properly when the event called for it.

Arthur straightens the last few creases out of his dinner jacket and goes to open the door-

He very nearly chokes.

Eames is dressed in a smoky grey three piece suit that fits himlike it was poured over him and then melded to every line, sculptured over his shoulders and nipped in at the waist. His hair is neatly slicked back and his jaw is freshly-shaved and he’s always been good-looking, Arthur’s not dead for fuck’s sake, but right now-

Arthur thinks he’s never looked more hideously, devastatingly attractive.

 He’s also fiddling with his cufflinks, which allows Arthur just enough time to school his expression into something less resembling a brain-dead goldfish.

“Having some trouble?” he asks, and then has to clear his throat because apparently his voice has decided to die on him.

Eames looks up then, mouth open to say something- but stops at the sight of him.

It’s wonderfully satisfying, Arthur decides, watching Eames consciously pull himself together just as he had done seconds earlier.

“Yes. I hate the little buggers, never wear them if I can avoid it,” Eames holds up his open cuff and the loose cufflink. “I can’t do it with my right hand,” he explains apologetically, looking somewhat abashed.

Arthur rolls his eyes, but steps up closer anyway, hands just brushing Eames’ as he reaches over to the problematic cufflink. The brief skin-on-skin contact sets Arthur’s nerve-endings alight, and it’s stupid, so pathetic how he hasn’t felt like this since High School and it’s _Eames_ for god’s sake, insufferable, irritating Eames, but Arthur barely suppresses the slight shiver that shoots down his spine.

 At such close proximity, Arthur is acutely aware of Eames- how he stands just a couple of inches taller than him, how his rich, earthy cologne is subtle and terrifyingly alluring, and how Arthur can _feel_ the drum of Eames’ pulse beneath the delicate skin on the inside of his wrist-

“Thank you that’s fine,” Eames says suddenly, voice decidedly rough, and he pulls his arm quickly away.

Arthur tries to raise an appraising eyebrow, if for nothing else to watch Eames squirm a bit more- but he can’t help but imagine if Eames is in exactly the same position as Arthur. Senses on hyper-alert, somewhat bewildered and more than a little turned-on.

“There,” says Eames, finishing off his cuff, and smoothing his jacket sleeve down, “ready to act convincingly enough to fool a couple of American politicians? Shouldn’t be too hard.” He’s a little too jovial, a little too bright- and Arthur vaguely wonders if Eames has just become aware of the tenuous, intangible line too.

“High-light of my day,” Arthur replies, going for wry. In the back of his mind a small voice doubts that much acting will be necessary this evening.

“Care to take my arm Mr. Issacs?” Eames drawls, grin slowly returning, in an American accent that is pitch-perfect but horribly false at the same time.

“I don’t think that’s quite how our relationship works Mr. Henry,” Arthur shoots back, following Eames’ lead and using their new identities.

Eames chuckles, shakes his head.

“Oh I wouldn’t have you any other way,” he says under his breath in his usual voice, and Arthur bites back his smile, turns to lead the way down the corridor.

Maybe this isn’t such a bad plan after all.

 

* * *

 

 

There are four restaurants onboard Carpathia, each one more expensive than the last. Despite his widely-known modest attitude to life, Mark Scott is not one to pass up luxury when it’s readily available. Arthur predicts he’ll therefore be dining at the 5-star World Cuisine Restaurant on the top deck.

And Arthur, as so often is the case, is correct.

The World Cuisine epitomises wealth and exuberance. The rich, blood red carpet is plush beneath their feet, and mahogany tables are laden under the weight of silver platters bearing beautifully arranged appetizers. A pianist at a sleek black, grand piano in the centre of the restaurant plays [light jazz music](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yIRuri1AB0I), just audible over the quiet hubbub of conversation, and dimmed lights allow for the use of candles in a refined sort of way. The aroma of cooking spices, sizzling meat and fine wine drifts like a heady breeze across the room, mingling with carefully selected incense in a way that somehow suppresses the whole effect from becoming too overwhelming. 

Arthur can’t help but internally congratulate the manager. The resulting atmosphere, however carefully orchestrated it may be, is irrefutably effective.

“Bloody hell I’m glad we’re getting Ryan to pay for all this,” Eames mutters as they pass the large standing menu, polished black wood, with inked gold script- lavish and yet sophisticated at the same time. There is not a main course for less than £40 available.

They join the small queue of people waiting to be seated by impeccably dressed waiters.

Arthur says nothing, but scans the sea of elegant passengers in an attempt to locate Scott before they sit down. It isn’t hard. The man has a rather unsubtle security squad of three towering body-guards, and is clearly seated at a large table close to the far-window, looking out over the ocean.  Scott is deeply involved in an animated discussion with a colleague sitting opposite. It’s obviously an amusing topic because quite suddenly the whole table erupts into raucous laughter, disturbing the peace and earning them quite a few dirty glances from other passengers. An elderly British man on the table close by mutters, “Americans,” disdainfully under his breath.

Eames sends a side-long grin at Arthur.

 “We run the plan as discussed,” Arthur murmurs grimly instead, “Knock into his chair and use it as an excuse to introduce ourselves. Do you want to be the clumsy one or should I?”

Arthur can already feel himself settling into a strangely separate frame of mind. He really does hate having to act for jobs. The false smiles and fake names- taking advantage of the automatic trust people tend to bestow on him based on nothing more than a few carefully considered, polite words. It’s not that lying and deceiving is something Arthur doesn’t do on a daily basis; the job calls for it, but it doesn’t stop him feeling a little cold when the deception is face-to-face. Not to mention that if the script deviates during a difficult conversation, Arthur struggles to continue with the facade. He’s not a born actor like Eames. There is a reason he mentally considered every possible other course of action for most of the afternoon before conceding to this.

So there’s really nothing he can do now other than grit his teeth and try to keep smiling.

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur suddenly realises that Eames is watching him carefully.

“What?” Arthur asks, feeling automatically defensive.

“You’re not comfortable with this,” Eames says. It’s not a question.

“Of course I’m fucking not,” and Arthur feels suddenly irrationally angry, but Eames _knows_ he hates this, and for some reason he can’t fight back the nerves like he normally can. He curses himself, hating that he’s letting them down, that he’s the one losing control, and that Eames- Eames in his ridiculously suave suit, Eames who’s getting side-long looks from men and women alike from across the room, Eames with his composure and level-headed calm- Eames is the one who has noticed.

Eames watches him for a second more, lips a tight line, and then reaches a hand to the small of Arthur’s back, and steers him out of the line towards the bar in one smooth move.

Arthur goes with it, he has to, they’re getting enough looks as it is, but turns his head just enough so Eames can hear him when he hisses, “This better have a good explanation.”

“Change of plan,” Eames says lightly in lieu of a proper reply, “I have a theory which I hope you’ll indulge me to test.”

They sit down at the long curving bar, nestled in a far corner of the restaurant. It is secluded in a way that allows it to fit in seamlessly with the understated class of the atmosphere. Eames signals to the barman, who nods and turns at once to the vast, old-fashioned glass cabinet lining the back wall.

“Explain,” Arthur demands quietly, turning to Eames the moment they sit down.

Eames smiles, completely at ease and effortlessly attractive.

Arthur really does hate him.

“Have some faith darling, I was going through some of your wonderfully concise research this afternoon- and it struck me that perhaps a more subtle approach to our introductions might add to the realism of the whole thing, as it were.”

“How so,” Arthur deadpans.

Eames casts his gaze pointedly out into the restaurant, and Arthur follows his line of sight. From the exact space they are occupying at the bar, they are in the uninterrupted eye-line of Scott from his seat at the table. Even as Arthur locates Scott, the American looks up, catches his eye and throws him a self-assured smile in polite greeting.

Arthur looks back to Eames. Eames smiles again, raising an eyebrow expectantly as if to say, _I’ve done it again haven’t I? I’ve surprised you with my own genius._

“Oh shut up,” Arthur mutters, trying to hide his smile behind his shot glass. Eames laughs delightedly.

“Well you see,” he says, the smugness seeping into his voice, “Scott’s a naturally curious man. He’s always been fascinated by same-sex relationships in a way that veers on uncomfortable- I highly doubt he’s only ever played for the one team - but if that fascination comes across as support in Congress, well, he’s allowed to be a bit odd-“

“The point, Eames. Get to it.”

“From my preliminary observations, and deductions from your, as I’ve already mentioned, _intricately_ detailed research,” he waves an impressed hand in Arthur’s direction, and Arthur rolls his eyes, “is that if Scott sees an attractive, intelligent gay couple on an otherwise doggedly straight Cruise ship, who are consistently illusive and mysterious and no doubt fabulously rich- he’ll end up making the introductions himself. He strikes me as a possessive sort of chap- he’ll want to add us to his collection of friends that cover all and any cultural and sexual orientation. That is my theory.”

Arthur considers him. Aside from the fact Eames had called them an _attractive couple_ which, well, Arthur wasn’t quite sure how to deal with- the entire thing makes breathtakingly _perfect_ sense and fitted Arthur’s personality assessment of Scott to a tee.

“I’m impressed that you were able to get through my research,” he says carefully, which is partly true. He’s impressed by the concept in its entirety- but Eames’ ego is already very well-established thank-you-very-much. Eames chuckles, amused.

“I live for your gracious compliments Arthur darling.”

“It’s not exactly light-reading-“

“A simple- ‘Ingenious idea Eames, let’s run with it’- will suffice on this occasion.”

“As if I would _ever_ stoop so low-”

“Yet here we are running with Eames’ Ingenious Idea anyway.”

“Who said we were running with it?”

“You didn’t have to, your adoring smile at the end of my little spiel said enough.”

Arthur stares at him for a disbelieving second, and then laughs, trying and failing to prevent the inevitable dimples that have plagued his carefully-built reputation his entire life.

“That is...” he pauses, struggling for words, “the most ridiculous thing you have ever said to me.”

“And yet true,” Eames beams at him from across his glass, eyes warm and fond.

Arthur feels a little light-headed, and infinitely more relaxed than he did earlier. He forgets how being with Eames tends to have that effect. He signals for more drinks, not bothering to keep his contented smile in check.

“Not to put you under any pressure so early on,” Eames says casually, leaning in close to Arthur’s ear, voice quiet again, “but Scott has barely stopped looking at you since we sat down. He smiled when you laughed.”

Arthur stiffens a little. Somehow the wonderful ease of the last minute lose its glow a little. It’s all part of the act. He needs to remember that.

Eames rests a warm hand on his knee, and Arthur’s doesn’t move away from the contact.

“Pretend he’s not there,” Eames murmurs gently, and presses a crystal glass of amber liquid into Arthur’s hand. “He’ll come over when he’s finished eating. We’ve got a while yet.”

“I’m fine,” Arthur mutters back, and downs the drink in one. The last thing he wants is Eames worrying over him. He’s fought with his bare hands in zero-gravity for fuck’s sake, he can do a bit of petty acting.

The evening passes in relative comfort. Arthur can’t shake the niggling sense that he’s being watched, but finds that Eames is scarily good at distracting him with conversation- whether it’s intentional or not. They make sure to keep up the smiles, and throw in the odd joke and laugh. Eames stays close, knees just brushing Arthur’s, and regularly makes contact- brushing a loose thread from Arthur’s shoulder, or simply resting a hand on Arthur’s thigh. It’s nothing to make Arthur feel _uncomfortable_ to be sure, but the thought that _this_ is how Eames acts when he’s with someone, and who those persons might be, leaves him with an unexplainable sour taste in his mouth.

They eat dinner fairly quickly at a nearby table, and Arthur can sense how Eames is becoming slightly anxious. His plan, however ingenious it may be, relies largely on Scott having the balls to come over in the first place. They are playing a game with a little too much left to chance for Arthur’s liking.

But all doubt dissipates when, sitting back at the bar, Eames nudges Arthur lightly in the side, and tilts his head.

Scott is walking purposefully through the emptying restaurant tables towards them. Another man is with him.

Eames meets Arthur’s eye briefly. This is it.

“You know I think we should head back on to our room-“ Eames’ voice is loud but not noticeably so, his accent harsh and brass again, so completely unlike his own, “we can stop out on the deck along the way. It’s set to be a beautiful night.”

Arthur nods, smiling confidently across at him. They step off the stools and turn to head out of the restaurant.

_It’s now or never,_ Arthur thinks a little desperately.

Scott blocks their path.

“Hey there!” he says with a cheeriness that makes Arthur cringe internally, “couldn’t help but notice you two from across the restaurant. Thought I should make myself known- Mark Scott, absolute pleasure.”

“But of course!” Eames near-roars, “ _The_ Mr. Scott! I should’ve recognised you straight away- god, we’ve heard all about you- haven’t we Aaron?”

Arthur nods obligingly. “Delighted,” he says quietly, and shakes Scott’s hand with a firm grip. He turns to greet the man unknown to them. He’s tall and well-built, with carefully mussed-up blond hair. He reminds Arthur of Ken Doll.

The man doesn’t even spare Arthur a glance. His eyes are fixed on Eames.

Eames beams, and reaches over to greet the man. “The name’s Henry. Luke Henry.”

“Tristan Jones.” The man says, his voice low and rough, and he holds Eames’ hand for a second too long once they’ve shaken. Arthur has to check himself from rolling his eyes.

“And this is my partner,” Eames continues merrily, wrapping an arm around Arthur’s waist and pulling him up against him, “Aaron Issacs.”

Arthur nods again in greeting, as Tristan clearly shows no inclination in wanting to shake _his_ hand.

Eames smiles warmly at everyone, and turns back to Scott, who’s already signalling to the barman to get them another round of drinks.

“So,” says Scott, gesturing for them all to sit down as though they are only standing on his account-

“what brings you here?”


	3. Tristan (the Ken Doll) and a Poker Game

Eames launches immediately into an incredibly elaborate and entirely fabricated back-story that focuses intimately on how he and ‘Aaron’ met in some bloodcurdlingly romantic situation, and various the trials and tribulations they’ve undergone to get to today. Half of the ridiculous stuff Eames comes up with makes Arthur want to laugh, but Scott is lapping it up, eyes wide, listening with rapt attention.

Tristan stares unabashedly at Eames with slightly glazed eyes, and, for absolutely no reason at all, it makes Arthur want to punch something.

The ‘something’ preferably being Tristan’s head.

Eames occasionally involves Arthur, prompting him for an opinion on their fabulous escapades, or asking him for some imaginary date or name that Arthur chooses at random. Arthur can’t help but think back to the actual first time they met- back in their military days on Project Somnacin, before Eames had learnt to lie and Arthur had learnt to keep a tap on his emotions.

Eames had been the roguish Brit the American Generals couldn’t stand- cocky, eternally smug and infallibly amused by anything Arthur said or did.

But he was also fiercely loyal to his friends, staggeringly intelligent and competent, a damn good soldier, and possibly the most beautiful thing Arthur had ever encountered.

In the present, Eames’ warm hand comes to rest on Arthur’s knee, and he leans closer.

“Alright darling? You look a little lost,” Eames murmurs softly into his ear, voice slightly too loud to be completely private.

Arthur shudders slightly. Eames’ warm breath on his neck raising goosebumps.

“Fine, sorry, just drifted off,” Arthur replies quickly, and he smiles apologetically at the table.

Scott sighs happily.

“You see? You guys are absolutely made for each other- you’ve been to Hell and back to get here, but you’ve done it. _You_ guys are the reason I get so mad with our country sometimes- how can anyone doubt that you're in love? What’s the likelihood of you getting a divorce if you could even _get_ married?” Scott jams a knife into the bar table to emphasise his point.

Arthur flushes a little, because he knows he’s not _that_ good at acting ‘in love’. With a start he realises he’s somehow ended up leaning towards Eames in a way that _anyone_ could tell wasn’t acting.

“You’re right of course,” Eames says, frowning fiercely, “the laws have got to be changed over the entire country- not just in certain states. I fail to understand how anyone can justify a decent argument against it.”

“This is _exactly_ what I’ve been trying to tell the other big names back home!” Scott roars, seemingly delighted that someone sees his perspective at last despite the fact Arthur is sure he is aware of his millions of supporters.

Eames launches into a heated debate over the injustices of modern day society against homosexuality, and is rewarded with Scott responding just as enthusiastically. Scott adamantly agrees with everything Eames says, which may have something to do with the fact Eames is practically quoting Scott’s own speeches from Arthur’s research back at him. It’s a clever thing to do, Arthur decides- Eames is gaining Scott’s trust and respect by the sentence, which will make their job an awful lot easier.

The subject of Scott’s son has yet to be mentioned however- Arthur makes a mental note to ask Eames his opinion on the best way to approach it.

The evening drags on, Arthur deciding to have a little more input and throwing in the odd statistic that guarantees him deeply impressed looks from Scott, but the clock hands still seem to _crawl_ towards midnight. Just as Arthur is thinking of suggesting they call it a night- he’s still fucking exhausted from lack of sleep- Eames reaches over quite suddenly and covers Arthur’s hand with his own.

He squeezes lightly, thumb running over the inside of Arthur’s wrist. Arthur blinks at him. The casual affection of the gesture, the lingering tingle, the fond warmth on Eames’ eyes- it feel so wonderfully natural, so _normal_. And then, quite suddenly, Arthur is blindsided by a burning _want_.

Eames smiles gently, “you’re drifting again- I’ll be back in a second, then we’ll head to bed?”

Just like that, the moment passes, and Arthur is left feeling strangely breathless. He nods gratefully.

Scott looks distraught.

“Hey no! I had plans for us this evening- do either of you play poker? I’d love for you to join us- I mean, if you’d like to, of course-“

Arthur unintentionally scowls. He knows exactly what Eames will think to that.

Eames’ grin is wicked.

“Hell yeah,” he says, and Scott laughs.

“Well consider yourself invited. I booked out one of the private rooms earlier- we can play a couple of rounds before you leave- how’s that sound?”

“Awesome,” Arthur says. Judging from Eames’ half-snort half-laugh, he’s the only one who hears the dripping sarcasm.

“Okay then- I’ll be right back,” Eames gets up, straightening Arthur’s shirt cuff as he goes. At the last second, he turns back to Arthur and, casual as can be, bends down to kiss him.

Arthur makes a noise that is most definitely _not_ a squeak in surprise, and can do nothing but sit there helplessly as Eames kisses him, warm, sure and confident. It lasts just a moment too long for polite company, and when Eames pulls back, grinning happily, Arthur feels for all the world as though someone has just clubbed him round the head.

He really is going to have to talk to Eames about pulling this sort of shit without warning him.

As Eames leaves, Tristan, who hasn’t said a word the entire evening, gets up quickly and follows him.

Arthur is too dazed to notice.

“He’s a very lucky man,” Scott says, almost dreamily, “from the way he’s been around you tonight it’s almost as though he can’t believe you’re with him- do you mind me asking if something happened to you guys recently?”

Arthur coughs around the sudden lump in his throat.

“I- I uh, was really ill. Last fall. I fully recovered earlier this year,” he says unconvincingly. _Arthur, you may not be able to act but surely you can think of a better excuse than that shit,_ he chastises internally, but it’s too late.

For an all-out American politician, Scott’s eyes go unnervingly soft. He nods wisely, and offers Arthur a sympathetic and world-weary smile.

They pass a few minutes of excruciatingly awkward conversation- Arthur becoming increasingly aware of how he is nowhere _near_ as fluid at this as Eames, not that Scott seems to mind. In fact, he keeps making half-hearted passes at him, which Arthur not only finds utterly mortifying, but also puts him ill at ease. The man’s dying but he’s still married with three _kids_ for Christ sake.

There also happens to be another reason Arthur is feeling uncomfortable.

When neither Eames nor Tristan reappears after 10 minutes, Arthur gives in.

“Do excuse me. Can we meet you in the Poker Room?”

“Absolutely,” Scott nods vigorously, “Room number 2. I’ll get the barman to bring us something stronger.” He winks.

Arthur smiles his sincerest smile briefly, and then makes a bee-line for the bathroom.

He freezes in the doorway at the sight that meets his eyes.

Tristan has his back to Arthur, but is quite clearly pressing Eames up against the sinks on the opposite wall. His hands are on Eames’ waist, possessive and horribly wrong, and he’s leaning in like he’s about to steal a kiss. Arthur’s first instinct is to reach for the knife at his ankle and throw it neatly into the man’s shoulder.

But he falls abruptly short.

Because Eames is fucking _grinning_.

Then he notices Arthur and his eyes go wide.

Tristan notices a second later in the mirror’s reflection, and jumps back from Eames’ as though he’s burning. He looks from Arthur to Eames, then back to Arthur, then averts his gaze, swallows, mutters something vaguely about ‘not his fucking issue’ and leaves.

The tension in the silence left behind as the door swings shut is palpable.

Arthur is inexplicably angry and he’s not entirely sure why. If he wanted to punch Tristan earlier, he wants to fucking _disembowel_ him now. And maybe Eames too while he’s at it.

“I’m sorry to have interrupted,” Arthur bites out.

“Christ no, Arthur, I was just-“ Eames protests wearily, and runs a hand through his hair. He suddenly looks very, very tired.

“I think it was quite clear actually- please spare me the details,” Arthur sneers. His anger almost catches him by surprise, it’s fierce, irrational, and uncontrollable, bubbling through his veins- the image of Tristan’s hand on Eames’ hips burned into his retinas. Tristan who has absolutely _fuck all_ to do with the job. Tristan who doesn’t even _matter._

“I was just doing my job,” Eames shoots back, frowning now, “And unlike _some_ , I’ve actually managed to get somewhere. I know a fuckload more about Scott’s relationship with the son, and we’ve got another private poker session booked on the last night. It’s the perfect opportunity for the job- we couldn’t have bloody asked for anything better.”

“Oh by all means- I apologise sincerely for assuming,” Arthur says, voice close to shaking he’s so _furious_ , “Should I come to that? Or will you not need my contribution seeing as you are handling it all so well on your own?”

“Arthur- I don’t _enjoy_ doing this-“

“For fuck’s sake Eames you were practically _salivating_ over him-“ Arthur hisses.

“It’s called acting! Jesus Christ, you’re being pathetic- I pretend, I fake, I know how people work and I use it against them. _You_ should know all about that.”

“What the fuck? I fucking _know_ I can’t act for shit, but prostituting yourself like some desperate twink is hardly ‘acting’-“ Eames’ mouth twists into a cruel, ugly sneer, and Arthur hates him, hates him and doesn’t even know why.

“For someone who can’t act you can sure as hell play the jealous boyfriend part well- no-one’s here Arthur, it’s just us, so you can drop the pretence that you actually _fucking care_ -”

Arthur goes suddenly cold. Something must show on his face because Eames cuts off mind-rant and his expression hardens into something horribly unfamiliar.

“Rest assured I don’t,” Arthur says quietly, the cold numbness sitting heavy in his stomach. He turns to leave because he doesn’t think he can quite cope with this for much longer.

“Are you sure you’ll manage it?” Eames asks, voice dead and mocking and so, so unlike himself, “Pretend for the rest of the week? Might look a little suspicious if we end our idyllic relationship now.” He laughs hollowly.

“Of course I fucking can,” Arthur fires back, anger flaring anew, “it’s you I’m concerned about-if you’re going to let yourself get caught kissing the face off other men like that. Can you stand to make it _believable_?”

It’s Eames’ turn to look taken aback. He stares at Arthur for a moment, expression blank, before nodding curtly.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good,” Arthur says, the word heavy and unpleasant in his mouth.

Eames’ gaze drops to the floor, and he sinks back a little against the counter, his mouth a hard line.

Arthur has never felt so empty.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Poker Rooms are off down a thin corridor near the bottom of the ship. In the bowels of the vessel the movement of the boat is far less noticeable, and the distant hum of the engines roars a little louder from beneath their feet.

Arthur keeps several steps ahead of Eames, avoiding eye contact and only speaking when absolutely necessary. He’s struggling to come to terms with _why_ he feels so awful- anger combined with something else, a sinking feeling of... disappointment? Either way, it makes Arthur wish he was in anywhere else in the world other than in a situation which requires him to act as Eames’ besotted boyfriend.

The room itself is small and windowless, the walls a deep maroon. Cigarette smoke rolls languidly across the ceiling, and a private bar in one corner is attended by a sullen looking barman. Scott has dragged along several of his companions, and they sit around the table, eyes unfocused by drink, talking and laughing amongst themselves.

Arthur hates it at once.

He has never been one for confined places, but _this_ , cramped and windowless, the air muggy with alcohol fumes, stiflingly warm, surrounded by complete strangers and armed with only the knife in his ankle holster, sets his teeth on edge. Arthur is half-tempted to forget his fucking pride for once and make some excuse, he’s tired, he’s sick, he can’t stand to look at Eames’ face, but something stops him.

An instinctive, unavoidable force that stops him from abandoning a teammate in the field.

Even if said-teammate is Eames.

Eames, who has never been so quiet, is already slipping effortlessly back into character, laughing and smiling, the very picture of charming.

God Arthur hates him.

The game starts as soon as Scott arrives with the cigars, laughing raucously at something the squat man with him has said. The son is right behind him- Arthur recognises him at once. James is slight, and pasty pale with small, assessing dark eyes. Arthur feels a small amount of relief that Ariadne isn’t with them. Tristan follows in after James, and pointedly looks everywhere in the room but at Arthur and Eames. 

Arthur ignores him, leaves Eames to sink into a chair opposite Scott, and instead goes over to the bar to buy Eames and him a drink. The barman quietly tells him all drinks have already been paid for, and hands him two shot glasses of an amber liquid. The smell of the unknown liquor burns Arthur’s nostrils, but he downs the glass in one anyway. He suspects he’s going to need it.

Most of the men are seated in plush chairs around the table, and as Scott, James and Tristan take their places, Arthur realises with a sinking feeling that there are no chairs left.

Someone notices and laughs, and somebody else wolf-whistles, leering at Arthur and patting his lap.

Arthur feels faintly sick. He has never wanted to _get the fuck out_ of a situation more than he does right now.

Arthur meets Eames’ eye for a brief moment, and prays he doesn’t look as helpless as feels. In this moment, he has no idea what to do. Something like apology flashes across Eames’ face, and he makes a small gesture that Arthur doesn’t understand.

Arthur just stares, trying to control his expression. The laughs are getting louder.

But then a large hand is wrapping itself around Arthur’s hip, and hauls him in. Eames pulls Arthur gently down onto his lap, much to the delight of the others. Eames laughs along with them, entirely at ease, and presses his lips against Arthur’s neck.

Arthur manages a grim smile in response to the renewed laughs and catcalls of the others. He rests his hand lightly on Eames’ knee in an entirely casual gesture, and then presses his thumb steadily into the weak joint under the knee-cap in a calculated move he knows hurts like fuck. Eames winces slightly beneath him, but doesn’t move away. His expression gives nothing away.

The game begins, and Arthur very quickly looses track of what’s happening. The cards are immaterial. Instead, he focuses on watching the players, cataloguing the names and faces he recognises from his hours of scanning photos and CCTV footage, carefully assessing their interactions. James is quiet, but Scott throws him more than a few easy smiles, and it seems that they really are on the road to recovery. Arthur files that observation away in his mind for future reference. It feels slightly odd, surveying _people_ in a way that is wholly foreign to him, but comes so naturally to Eames.

 Eames, who currently holds the entire stakes of the game in his left hand.

Sitting on someone’s _lap_ is odd too, Arthur reminds himself uncomfortably. He feels horribly vulnerable for the first time in years. And the fact its _Eames_ doesn’t fucking help either. Eames who messes up Arthur’s plans, throws caution to the wind and who knows all Arthur’s weak spots and has never shied away from taking advantage of them mercilessly, in a fond, amused sort of way. Eames who is compulsive, irrational and terrifyingly quick to think on his feet- who is continually underestimated, and who defies Arthur’s expectations constantly. Eames who would never _ever_ leave someone behind, who is fiercely loyal to the very end .

Eames who Arthur really doesn’t know how to deal with anymore.

The conversations swings in alcohol-infused roundabouts, through swirling cigar smoke and the faint smell of stale sweat, before returning full-circle. To the subject of partners. Every single man except James and Tristan in the room is married, that much Arthur can tell, and a fair few seem to be dropping heavy, self-satisfied hints that they have mistresses too. The topic naturally rolls around to the comparison of love-lives, and, as Eames falls suddenly quiet, Arthur feels an uneasy tension building.

“So then Mr. Henry,” a portly man on Eames’ right grumbles, his words a little slurred, “how’s things with you? If you know what I mean...” he breaks off, laughing at his own pathetic-excuse of a joke.

An awkward silence falls momentarily, and the man laughs again, nervously this time, when he seems to remember that Arthur, the partner in question, is actually present.

“I have absolutely no complaints, if that’s what you wanted to know,” Eames says, good-naturedly enough, but Arthur can sense the hardness behind his words, “I am very lucky, and grateful for it.”

The air is very still, hanging heavy in the room. Despite the fact nearly every man is verging on drunk, Arthur is aware that nobody missed the sudden coldness in Eames’ voice.

“So you should be,” Arthur says quietly into his glass, mustering up a side-long smile at the portly man. The man flushes abruptly and starts to make embarrassed apologies, but the spell is broken, and table laughs in delight, someone actually reaching over to pat Arthur on the back. Another round of drinks is ordered, and the frostiness is quickly forgotten.

It’s horrible, cringe-worthy to the extreme and Arthur is fairly sure he could die right now, but Eames’ mouth is suddenly very, very close to his ear.

“Good call,” Eames whispers.

It’s a peace offering, Arthur thinks, an extended olive branch- hands raised, a guilty smile. It still doesn’t make him any less pissed with Eames, but he’ll accept it. He twists his mouth in a half-smile.

However, the portly man seems to have opened the flood-gates, exposing Arthur to be just as capable of handling conversation as Eames. The questions range from curious, to surprisingly polite, to shirty half-flirts, to cripplingly embarrassing. Arthur does his best, but he can’t help that notice that Eames is always one step behind. Even if he’s engrossed in another conversation when Arthur stalls uncomfortably, internally panics because _oh fucking hell what am I doing?_ , he sidles in and answers the question for Arthur, or else drops an amusing anecdote that draws attention from Arthur altogether.  

Arthur isn’t sure whether to feel angry that Eames doesn’t think him competent, or grudgingly grateful.

The game drags on for what feels like _hours_. Arthur hates himself for it, but it’s too warm in the room, the air muggy with alcohol and he’s never been more desperate to sleep. He stays sitting as straight as he can, minimising the contact with Eames because despite his tiredness he’s still hyper-aware of every place on his body that’s touching his-

 But he’s blinking too frequently now, can feel his smiles becoming more strained. The exhaustion of the past week is catching up with him, rolling up behind his eyes, gaining strength every time he tries to fight it.

Then, quite abruptly-

Eames is nudging him to his feet, apologising in all directions and stifling an extremely realistic yawn. He makes various excuses about the journeying of the day and how they really should be getting to bed, and promises a woefully dejected Scott that they will be delighted to meet-up again on the Friday for a private rematch. He smiles and nods at the various good-nights in return and his hand rests on Arthur’s waist the whole time, naturally, comfortably, as though none of it’s an act at all, and when they are finally ready to go, he holds the door open for Arthur before following him out of the room into the empty, quiet cool of the corridor.

For a second, they stand there in silence, Arthur opens his mouth to say something snide, irritable, but the words die in his throat.

“You’re not tired,” he says instead, voice hoarse.

“No, I’m not,” Eames replies quietly.

The unspoken words ring in Arthur’s ears, as clear as if Eames had said them himself.

_I’m not, but I can tell you are, you idiot._

He wants to feel angry at Eames, he really does, he wants to glare at him, to pass off some sarcastic remark about resorting to sitting in Eames’ _lap_ for fuck’s sake, wants Eames to retaliate. But the only thing that comes to mind is Eames’ warm chest against his back, his lips against his neck and the politely apologetic way he’d made their excuses to leave.

And the strange cold hollowness of course. The numbing pain that sits somewhere behind his heart-

_you can drop the pretence that you actually fucking care_

Eames doesn’t say anything else, but instead gestures for Arthur to start off down the corridor. Arthur does, because he can’t think of anything else to do.

The quiet between them is unlike something Arthur has ever experienced. It’s strange, empty and desolate, miles of unvoiced tension, yet clamouring with silent words, dark thoughts and blinding feelings threatening to surface at any given moment.

When Arthur realises that they’ve reached their cabins, and he’s standing outside his door, he can’t bare it any longer. He knows he won’t be able to sleep with this silent weight hanging over him.

 “For future reference,” he blurts out, forcing himself to meet Eames’ eye, “I don’t appreciate being treated like some lap-dog. I know it works for Scott, but could you just- not,” Arthur struggles for words. It’s not what he wants to say, not in the slightest, but at least it’s _something-_

“Naturally. I apologise that it came to that- won’t happen again,” Eames says. His expression is a carefully controlled neutral.

“Good-night Arthur.” He inclines his head, and disappears into his cabin.

“Good-night,” Arthur says a beat later into the empty corridor.


	4. Libraries of Improbable Proportions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Arthur?” Eames’ tentative voice pulls him away from his thoughts. Eames is watching him with the slightly fearful expression of someone who believes they’ve assumed too much too quickly and are about to pay the price.

Arthur sleeps badly and when he does wake, he can’t quite work out the cause of the heavy weight sitting on his chest.

Then, unfortunately- because Arthur has always had a good memory like that- he remembers.

He showers, dresses and eats a fancily presented continental breakfast in the Morning Room. Windows line the room on three sides, and there is nothing but vast, glittering ocean in all directions, shimmering beneath the rising sun. The sky is impossibly blue, and early-rising passengers are chatting happily over their waffles and fruit salad, children running between tables, giggling and calling out to one another.

Arthur closes his eyes.

He has never felt so fucking _confused_.

_“I was just doing my job... I fake, I know how people work and I use it against them. You should know all about that... For someone who can’t act you can sure as hell play the jealous boyfriend part well...“_

_“...you can drop the pretence that you actually fucking care.”_

_“Rest assured I don’t.”_

Arthur winces. Had he really said that? Surely Eames knows that it’s so untrue it’s practically laughable. He must do. He has to. Arthur’s been working with Eames for the past decade, has known the man since he was 18 for fuck’s sake.

And then afterwards, having to pretend as though nothing had happened, having to sit as close as was humanly possible to the person he’d really rather have avoided for the rest of the evening. Having to defer questions about their imaginary _sex-life_.

And how Eames had clearly, _clearly_ , tried his upmost to minimise Arthur’s discomfort.

Even now, Arthur doesn’t know what he’s going say or do when he sees Eames again. He feels oddly unsettled, uneasy -

And so very, very out of his depth.

Because despite what had happened, and the confusion and fucking _feelings_ , Arthur is certain of one thing.

They have crossed the intangible line.

And he hasn’t a fucking clue what that means.

 

* * *

 

Arthur can’t face up to tracking Eames down just yet, so he asks a man he recognises from the poker game the evening before where he can find Scott.

Scott turns out to be otherwise occupied in the spa. Along with his son.

There is absolutely no way that Arthur is going to the ship’s _spa_ undercover. The logistics of concealing a gun holster under a bathrobe don’t bear thinking about.

Instead, Arthur decides that there is no real rush. They are onboard the ship for five days after all, and this is only the second. There is plenty of time to observe the mark and his son for any further information. The plan is more or less set, and Eames has long-since learnt the levels that Ariadne had spent the best part of a month designing.

Arthur ends up in the ship’s library.

The room is not particularly large, but takes up two floors, a spiral staircase leading onto the second floor balcony which hangs out mid-way across the room.  The window takes up an entire wall, solid, reinforced glass stretching up past the balcony to the ceiling, allowing sunlight to pour into every inch of the room. Books fill authentically carved wooden shelves, lining the walls and reaching out into the floor space.

Arthur steals a large, worn leather armchair in the corner by the window, a little way away from anyone else. He searches the shelves briefly, choosing a few familiar bindings, and then risking a couple he doesn’t recognise.  He settles down in the chair, glances around the room one last time, unfolds his reading glasses, and starts to read.

Arthur has no awareness of time passing. On the rare occasions he allows himself this, reading for the sheer pleasure of it, he _reads-_ never the odd paragraph while on the move, never anywhere where he’s likely to be interrupted. He likes to fully immerse himself in the words, let them become his reality, and, for a time, forget about his reality altogether.

He very nearly jumps out of his skin when his phone rings. The usual ring-tone this time, he notes with an internal wince.

“Hi Arthur- just wondering how it’s going?” Ariadne chirps happily down the phone. Arthur smiles to himself. He should have known that Ariadne would want to be as involved in the job as humanly possible despite not actually _being_ there.

“Fine so far,” he says quietly, checking that he’s still very much alone, “we changed the plan, but it’s turned out in our favour. He’s keen to be friends bizarrely enough, and we’ve got a private poker session booked for the last night.”

“Oh but that’s perfect!” Ariadne enthuses, “Let me guess- Eames changed the plan?”

Arthur stalls for a second.

“Yes... yes, it was his idea.”

Ariadne laughs, “Sometimes I think he could do the whole thing himself- extraction. He thinks of everything- God, I wish I had half his originality for my designs.” She sounds wistful.

“He’s certainly charmed Scott,” Arthur says, unthinkingly.

“Oh yeah? Are you feeling charmed too Arthur?” He can practically _hear_ her grin.

“What? Oh. No- of course not, I-“

“Come off it Arthur, I’m sick to death of the two of you. If you don’t come off that boat with something then god help us all-“

“Ariadne-“

“Seriously Arthur,” Ariadne continues severely in the I-refuse-to-deal-with-your-shit voice she normally reserves for the ancient coffee machine in the warehouse when it refuses to co-operate, “he’s mad about you, even _Cobb_ can see it, and from as far as I can tell you really don’t hate him as much you make everyone think you do.  You’ve got history, you work so brilliantly together and can you really remember the last time you did a job without him?”

“2009, the Dahab Fuck-Up,” Arthur says automatically, using his mental nickname for the job that had been rotten from the start, ”Ariadne it’s hardly like we-“

"Don’t you deny that you feel something for him Arthur, because that’s just bullshit. Give it a chance, give _him_ a chance-“

 _I can’t I can’t, you don’t understand, sometimes I wish I just fucking could, when he looks at me like **that,**  but it’s so much more complicated and it’s too dangerous and I don’t want to hurt him, I don’t want to  hurt **me** \- _Arthur thinks desperately, struggling for words.

But then he catches sight of Eames, wandering through the library doors, hands deep in his pockets. He scans the room nonchalantly, his gaze coming to rest on Arthur.

“I have to go- I’ll call you later,” Arthur says abruptly to Ariadne, who’s still ranting about what an adorable couple he and Eames would make, and hangs up.

Eames falls casually into the armchair across from Arthur. He’s carrying a paper bag that he puts on the small coffee table between them.

“Ariadne?” he asks. He sounds oddly careful.

Arthur nods. Swallows. Thinks frantically of something to say.

Eames gazes at him for a moment, and then smiles. A small, half-smile, but a smile all the same.

“What is it?” Arthur says at once, and then wishes he didn’t sound so defensive.

Eames taps his temple with his index finger, and gestures to Arthur.

“Glasses,” he explains, still smiling, “All these years and I had no idea you wore them.”

Arthur reaches up to take them off at once, frowning slightly.

“Only for reading- most of the time I wear contacts.”

There is a pause. Strangely, Arthur doesn’t feel as though the silence is uncomfortable. It’s as though the night before hadn’t happened at all. But it did. It all did.

Arthur pointedly looks out of the window.

“Look,” Eames says suddenly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, “I just wanted to say- yesterday in the bathroom, I think-“

“I overreacted,” Arthur counters immediately, cutting him off, because he can’t _bear_ it if Eames starts _apologising-_ “you were doing your job and of course I understand what that calls for and I didn’t appreciate the facts and-“

“Hang on Arthur- what the fuck are you going on about?” Eames butts in, expression half-way between angry and completely perplexed.

Arthur feels himself flushing. God he hates this. He hates this and he hates Eames and his stupid face and stupid eyes and _Christ_ he hates himself.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he snaps, “I acted like an ass and made the rest of the evening unnecessarily uncomfortable, it was unprofessional and I apologise-“

“No,” Eames says fiercely, “you are _not_ going to go down the fucking ‘unprofessional’ route with me. I think we crossed that bloody bridge some time ago don’t you?”

Arthur stares.

“No,” Eames repeats, almost to himself, “what I wanted to say is that I said some things to you I regret. _Really_ regret.” He pauses, glaring at the coffee table as though it’s personally offended him. “I hate jobs like this sometimes- what they require, the deception, the lies-“

Arthur’s chest tightens painfully.

“-but the last thing I want to happen is for any of this to damage our relationship, whatever it is. I’m not willing to sacrifice that. It’s been far too long.” Eames meets Arthur’s eye with some fierce sort of determination.

There is pause, in which Arthur notices that the tips of Eames’ ears have turned a delicate shade of pink.

“Our relationship?” he repeats carefully, heart pounding somewhere in his throat, “professionally?”

Eames falls back against the chair with a melodramatic sigh, legs splayed wide- “’course he jumps to ‘professional’ every-bloody-time,” he mutters darkly under his breath.

“Forgive me for wanting-“

“-a little specificity?” Eames offers casually, but now it looks as though he’s trying to tamp down a smile as well and _thank fuck_ Arthur never thought he’d have missed that smile so much, “about... this?”

He gestures at the space between them.

“I’m afraid I’m not too clued up on the specifics myself,” Eames says wryly, and Arthur feels a surge of feeling, because Eames is _just_ as wary as him, just as caught out at sea, just as lost and confused as to where they’re at.

“The decision’s all yours darling,” Eames continues quietly, almost to himself, and Arthur has to look down because Eames’ eyes are painfully sincere.

And  _what was that supposed to fucking mean?_

Cleary Eames was suggesting that he, like Arthur, had noticed that they had long-left the realms of purely professional relationship. The late night phone-calls, the arguments that never _really_ went anywhere, that time on the Underground- how Arthur hadn’t even realised that it was _Eames’_ voice he had wanted, _needed_ to hear, that goddamned near-kiss up on the deck, this whole fake-boyfriend thing in the first place, Scott’s observations- _it’s almost as though he can’t believe you’re with him- no-one_ ’s that fucking good at acting, not even Eames, and yet they’d played along anyway, keeping up the pretence which really wasn’t a pretence at all.

 _Would you have reacted like that to seeing Ariadne or Cobb kiss a potential mark?_ Arthur asks himself wildly, and the answer is so painfully obvious; staring him right in the face, just as it has been all along.

 So now Eames was asking _him_ to make the decision, giving him an out, handing him all the control, and Arthur’s chest tightens so much it hurts.

“Arthur?” Eames’ tentative voice pulls him away from his thoughts. Eames is watching him with the slightly fearful expression of someone who believes they’ve assumed too much too quickly and are about to pay the price.

Arthur raises a finger, commanding a minute more silence.

Because this was some fucking huge epiphany.

He had always known, he supposed, right back to his days in the military when Lieutenant Eames sauntered in, all smiles and crisply refined accent, and Arthur handed him his brief, furiously trying to ignore the way his stomach did back flips in a way it hadn’t since he was 14.

Eames was a pain in the ass from day one- continually undermining Arthur’s authority, mainly because he was 21 and Arthur was stuck eternally at 18 which meant his authority meant pretty much shit, despite being the most highly regarded dream-worker on the entire fucking _base_. And so it continued, Eames’ sly jokes, waggling eyebrows, casual avoidances of orders, right up until the day Arthur instinctively flung himself on a goddamned grenade in the dreamscape to save his unit.

Eames woke up 2 seconds later, tore his line out and scrambled to Arthur’s side, reaching out to hold Arthur’s clammy hand between his until Arthur got his breathing back and stopped shaking like he was having a seizure. As far as Arthur knew, Eames never told anyone about that day. He never ignored Arthur’s orders again. He still joked of course, but he took Arthur’s opinions with utter sincerity, and was well-known to challenge with icy contempt anyone that suggested a kid shouldn’t be in charge. After that day, he never looked at Arthur in the same way.

But Arthur would never forget that evening in the smoky, alcohol saturated bar off-site, with Eames pressed close next to him on the bar stool, all loose limbs and warm and laughing. How Arthur had never felt so comfortable, never so _safe_ and at home- until Eames had moved, impossibly, a little closer, and gazing at Arthur’s lips, quietly suggested that they go somewhere else.

And Arthur panicked. Because Eames was far too attractive to ever be _seriously_ interested in someone like him, and it would only ruin whatever wonderful, intangible thing they had, and there were people watching them because they were still in fucking _uniform_ , and the only godammned kiss he’d ever had had been with Sian Lee behind the Science block, and Arthur was fairly sure that was only because she was new and missing her old boyfriend-

So he ran. And never looked back.

And then Mallorie came along, trailing a besotted Cobb behind her, a swirl of silken scarves and glossy dark curls, admonishing everything and everyone to do with the American side of the programme in her fierce Parisian accent- except Arthur.  She took Arthur in like her own son, despite being barely 5 years older, sweeping him away into impossibly beautiful dreamscapes, showing him how dreaming could be so much _more_. And Arthur followed her lead, captivated and enthralled until suddenly he wasn’t in the military anymore, and Eames was nowhere in sight.

Until less than a year later.

Because of course Eames wasn’t going to let Arthur better him at _anything_. Of course he rose to the role of the most prestigious Forger in the world- partly because, at that time, no-one else could even _do_ it. Eames carved out a role for himself in Arthur’s world, and, on Arthur’s second corporate job, he sauntered in,  all smiles and accent and fucking competence, just as he had the first time all those years ago, and Arthur had tried so hard to ignore the way his stomach did back flips in a way it hadn’t since he was 18.

Jesus _Christ_.

Eames is watching him warily from the chair opposite, spinning his poker chip restlessly between finger and thumb.

“I- I’m sorry too,” Arthur tries not quite meeting his eye, voice hoarse, “for the things I said,” and it’s nowhere near enough, but Eames' face breaks out into a smile to challenge the sun, and promptly tries to hide it behind his mug of tea.

“But not a word to anyone about the Lap Incident though,” Arthur adds off-hand, feeling as though an enormous weight he hadn’t even noticed had been lifted from his shoulders, “I had my own chair like a goddamned adult, alright?”

Eames sniggers, and meets Arthur’s eye over the rim of his mug.

“It was a little bit awkward wasn’t it?”

“Awkward? It was _agonising_.”

“Well you certainly did a number on my knee. Jesus Christ Arthur, that move is _lethal_ \- I was trying not to limp the whole way back.”

Arthur smiles coyly, “I was only protecting my virtue.”

Eames splutters into his tea.

“Virtue? You’re kidding me- you may not _think_ you’re all that good at the acting side of things, but I swear you turned half of the men in that room with your sly little smiles and fluttering eyelashes.”

Arthur thinks that last comment deserves the kick he directs at Eames’ shin under the table.

“Piss _off_ , I was _not_ fluttering my eyelashes, I was just taking advantage of the fact they were all drunk off their face-“

“Arthur, Scott barely played a single card, recently redeemed son or not- he spent his entire time gawking at you.”

Arthur fights back the heat in his cheeks- he is _not_ a 12 year old girl.

“To be quite honest I’m more than convinced the man’s a bisexual in denial- though I don’t blame him, you were exceedingly attractive last night Arthur, but the way he was _staring-“_

“Okay okay,” Arthur interrupts, pretending he hadn’t noticed the offhand compliment that had curled warm in his stomach, “I’m getting a hint here that you want _me_ to try for the seduction thing with him _on my own_ , which is _not_ going to fucking happen-“

Eames’ knuckles are white around his mug, and he’s suddenly gazing out to sea with a strange intensity.

“What?” Arthur says, exasperated.

“I wasn’t suggesting that at all. I wouldn’t want that in the slightest.” His voice is suddenly strangely quiet.

“Which is why it isn’t going to happen- fuck the charm and smiles, I wouldn’t trust Scott around my houseplants, and I’m certainly not going to try anything without you,” Arthur says angrily, feeling irrationally that it’s of the most vital importance that Eames _knows this_.

Eames smiles at him, a little ruefully, and reaches into the paper bag to pull out a flask. He nudges it into Arthur’s half of the small table separating them.

It’s coffee. Made to fucking perfection.

Arthur practically inhales the stuff, because even _he_ can’t make his coffee as well as Eames does.

Eames chuckles lightly, and continues watching Arthur long after he’s finished drinking and picked up his book again.

They lapse into an easy quiet, a quiet that’s comfortable and familiar, and Arthur is undeniably grateful for.  Occasionally he glances up at Eames, who is invariably staring wistfully out of the window, or at his hands, or, more often than not, right back at Arthur, catching him in the act. Arthur ducks his head immediately, feeling oddly mortified and really, since when were they _this_ immature? But he can’t help but notice the way Eames smiles to himself whenever it happens, fond and happy, and fuck it all- it’s worth it to see Eames smile like that.

It’s then that Arthur notices the niggling in the back of his mind. The quiet alarm bell that forebodes that, any moment now, he’s going to realise something’s wrong. It takes him 30 seconds to work it out.

He sips casually at his coffee, and glances out of the window.

“Man to your right, 3rd shelf from the door, back wall,” he says quietly, focusing on keeping his lips as still as possible.

“In the classical history section? Been here for about 5 minutes- only just noticed something was odd,” Eames murmurs back in the clipped, deathly calm voice he uses when things have suddenly gotten serious.

A small, completely inexplicable fission of satisfaction shoots through Arthur’s veins, mingling with the adrenalin already pounding in his ears. Of course Eames is on exactly the same page as him.

“Previous marks?” Arthur asks from behind the flask, and Eames pulls a face.

“Possibly, can’t think of anyone I offended _that_ badly in the last couple of months.”

“Maybe you didn’t realise you were offending them,” Arthur mutters, and can’t help but smirk knowingly at Eames.

Eames grins, and then, completely out of the blue, throws back his head and laughs loudly, as though Arthur has just said the most hysterical thing in the world.

It’s horribly loud in the quiet of the library, and Arthur has to fight back the violent urge to fucking _knock Eames out_ there and then for drawing far more attention to themselves than needed.

He doesn’t however, because this means that Eames has a plan. And he’s more than willing to go along with it.

Eames seems to have calmed himself down, wiping imaginary tears of mirth from his eyes, watching Arthur delightedly and chuckling.

Arthur retains the self-satisfied smirk, and is suddenly aware of multiple, accusing eyes on them. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur notices the lurker slipping back behind the shelves, and then out of the door.

“You got to stop saying shit like that Aaron,” Eames says loudly, slipping effortlessly back into the brash all-American accent of Luke Henry, “my god- you’re practically criminal.”

Arthur does laugh then, perfectly genuine, and leans across to rest a comfortable hand on Eames’ knee. He sweeps his thumb carefully across the joint, watching Eames’ face intently. The flicker of pain is just visible beneath the falsely, exaggerated smile.

“That I am,” Arthur says quietly, pulling back, knowing now that they’ve lost some interest anyway; people are turning back to their books and shelves, tutting irritably about _Americans_ , or else smiling fondly at their own partner. Arthur doesn’t want to think too closely about that.

Eames’ grin morphs into something wonderfully familiar.

“You absolute bastard,” he says happily, reaching forward to rub ruefully at his knee.

“Part of the package,” Arthur confesses.

“Well then, would the bastard and all, if he _insists_ on being ‘part of the package’, care to join me for dinner this evening?” Eames asks promptly, and he’s all smiles, but something about the way his eyes dart down quickly, and how he’s holding his hands tightly, makes Arthur pause. Is Eames _nervous_?

“I’m eating with you every evening anyway Eames,” he says gently, the words a little hollow, because Eames really shouldn’t look this anxious, “that’s part of the act.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Arthur knows they are a mistake. Eames flinches, horribly, as though Arthur has slapped him across the face. His expression is pained as he leans forward, earnestly, a shaky smile on his lips-

“No you utter pillock, I’m asking _you_ , not Aaron-fucking-Issacs. I’m asking you, to dinner, with me, seeing as we might as well, and not part of some ridiculous con.”

Arthur stares at him, brain processing the words and still failing to make sense of them because _Jesus fucking Christ-_

“Uh, of course, I mean- yes, yes that would be. Nice.”

Eames gives a strained laugh that sounds far too relieved, and leans back. He surveys Arthur briefly, grinning slightly.

“You do blush extremely prettily Arthur, how have I not noticed this before?”

Arthur blushes.

“I do _not_ blush.”

“I beg to differ.”

“It’s warm in here, just because you have no awareness of temperature change in fucking Mombasa-“

“Born and bred in England- really Arthur, it’s all about the details-“

Arthur stifles a smile.

“Irrelevant. I do not blush. Men who murder on a regular basis don’t go for that sort of shit.”

“Murder in dreams- doesn’t count. And I’m not demasculinizing you pet, but forgive me for saying so that I have it on good authority that in such incidents where I embarrass or surprise you, you _do_ flush a rather charming shade of pink. Even the ears,” and Eames the bastard reaches up to tug lightly on Arthur’s right ear.

“It’s quite endearing actually,” he says smugly, “and I have absolutely nothing against it.”

Arthur waits a beat.

“I, on the flipside do. And I also have a gun pointed at your gut.”

Eames glances down taking in the Glock 17 aimed at his crotch under the coffee table, grins slowly.

“Point conceded.”


	5. Easy there Mr. Mozart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A date, a mild panic attack, a long overdue argument, lots of hand-holding and a tipsy piano-playing Arthur.

It’s more than a little strange to return to the World Cuisine without the burden of having to spy on a mark. Scott’s not there, having apparently decided on sea-food on the lower deck this evening, but Arthur still feels on edge, jaw locked and carefully assessing every inch of the restaurant as they wait to be seated.

Of course, it doesn’t help his mood that Eames looks absolutely _devastating_.

World Cuisine is hosting a 1920’s evening, and, to Arthur’s faint surprise, Eames didn’t turn down the offer of dressing up. The suit, a velvet black, fits him horribly well, and Arthur can’t help but think what with the generous smiles Eames offers to anyone who stares at him, he has come to personify Arthur’s internal image of Jay Gatsby.

“What was that pet?” Eames asks lightly, watching him with amused eyes.

 _That_ , Arthur thinks resignedly, _was you fucking up my internal monologue._

“Jay Gatsby. You look like him. Oh come on, you know, the guy in-“

Eames snorts. “Oh I’m well aware of Fitzgerald’s pretentious and ridiculously overrated creation thank you very much Arthur, and I would take your assessment as a compliment if I did not _despise_ the character with every fibre-“

Arthur gapes.

“What the- how can you even _say_ that? Gatsby sacrifices everything and everyone for Daisy- it’s the greatest love story of the 20 th century!”

“He plots and plans his entire life for when he’ll ensnare her,” Eames says promptly, “which is a little unsettling anyway, and _she_ only considers him once he’s risen in the social ladder and is rolling in cash which says a lot about _her._ Not to mention the fact she knocks over that poor woman and doesn’t take the blame like any honest person would. Despicable,” Eames says primly, shaking his head.

Arthur very much wants to strangle him. As it is, he just stands and stares.

Eames looks delighted.

“I’m sorry darling, have I touched a sore point?”

Arthur huffs in an extremely mature manner.

“You’ve insulted the proudest part of my heritage, I would say so yes.”

Eames pulls a face that just about resembles apologetic despite the fact he’s _clearly_ fighting back an enormous grin.

“By all means, feel free to insult my heritage in return. I could rant and rave about Shakespeare all day, not to mention Thomas Hardy, good god, I could _murder_ the man with my bare hands, and don’t even get me _started_ on Tolkien-“

“Sirs, would you care to follow me to your table?” the waiter interrupts, addressing Arthur, and glancing warily at Eames.

Arthur swallows his laugh with an unconvincing cough, to which Eames jabs him in the ribs, and they follow the waiter to the far side of the room alongside the window. The view is nothing but inky blackness, a misty moon hanging wearily in the sky.

The table is set for two. A lit candle flickers dauntingly in the centre of the dark velvet cloth.

Something of the cool, collected calm Arthur has managed to retain so far this evening snaps, and panic floods his entire being because _holy fucking Christ_ \- this is it, they’re finally here, he’s on a fucking _date_ with _Eames-_

A warm hand envelopes his, calloused rough skin against his fingers and palm. Eames’ squeezes his hand, just once, before letting go and sliding gracefully into the chair held out to him by the waiter. He meets Arthur’s eye and smiles, gentle, reassuring. 

Arthur realises, faintly, that _this_ time, that smile is not for anyone else to see. It’s not to convince anyone of anything. It’s just for him.

Arthur sits down.

The waiter takes their order for drinks, or rather Eames’ order, because Arthur doesn’t trust himself to speak right now, and then disappears across the restaurant.

 Arthur lets his head fall into his hands with a groan.

“Shit I’m sorry,” he mutters wearily, half-hoping Eames won’t hear him.

No such luck.

“I hardly think you owe me an apology Arthur,” Eames says quietly from across him.

Arthur sighs. “I’m being ridiculous. It’s just- it’s been a while. Since I’ve been on-- done this sort of thing. Sorry.”

A hand appears back at Arthur’s wrist, gently pulling his fingers away from his face. Eames smiles at him, but there’s something fierce in his eyes, a glint of determination.

“I know. And we can take this as slowly as you like. Really Arthur, after 8 years I think I can cope with a little longer.”

Arthur’s head snaps up so fast something in his neck cracks.

Eames’ smile lessens a little. “There’s nothing I regret more than letting you walk out of that bar back in Arizona. Honestly. I should have stopped you.”

 _Jesus Christ calm the fuck down_ , Arthur internally yells at his heart, because Eames’ hand is still lightly resting on his wrist, and he’s convinced Eames must be able to feel his rabbit-fast pulse.

“What are you talking about-- I shouldn’t have been such an immature prick who couldn’t handle-“

“You were _18_ Arthur, you were fucking 18 and despite all the command and the collected coolness and bloody _bravery_ you were the most insecure and frightened person I’d ever met.” Eames laughs uneasily.

The fear evaporates from Arthur’s system in a second, and he’s left feeling strangely hurt and _angry_.

“I was fucking _not frightened-_ “

“You were terrified,” Eames interrupts, and Arthur _hates_ that his voice is so steady, “as was I. As were we all. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You may have been horribly intelligent, but you were easily the youngest there and that-”

“You do know that I was offered promotions from 4 different generals while we were working on Project Somnacin?” Arthur asks furiously.

_And that I turned them all down? Because I wanted to stay with you?_

Eames’ mouth is a hard line. “Yes, I’m aware, and I am also aware that the American Government are utter _pricks_ for forcing 17-year-olds onto these projects-“

“What the fuck is it to you?”

“Arthur I watched you _age_ ,” Eames voice is hoarse, “Every day when we came up from those _bloody_ simulation dreams you were a little colder, a little stronger, a little older- and I _hated_ to see it, hated that someone so young and brilliant and fucking _vulnerable_ was slowly being torn apart in front of me-“

“Fuck you I was—“ Arthur cuts himself off, shaking with anger, because he hates to admit that Eames may have a point. He needed to take a different line of argument-

“Then why did you fucking come after me years later if I was only ever some pathetic scared teenager to you?” he snaps instead, barely restrained fury bubbling beneath his words, and he doesn’t even know _why_ he’s this angry, and they’re in a public place and the people nearby can probably hear every word they’re saying-

“Why do you think?” Eames hisses all of a sudden, squeezing Arthur’s wrist hard, hard enough to hurt, hard enough to bruise, his eyes burning. “Why do you think I did Arthur? Do you really want to hear the answer to that?”

Arthur stares at him, and god he’s still so angry, because Eames messes with his head so much he doesn’t know what to do, what to say, doesn’t know who he _is_ anymore, and Eames is still watching him with some kind of fervent desperation, willing him to understand-

All the fight suddenly drains out of Arthur as if someone’s pulled the plug. He goes limp, sinking back into his chair, pulling his wrist out of Eames’ grasp.

Eames lets out a harsh breath, closing his eyes briefly, before snapping them back open to gaze at Arthur.

“You do know, don’t you? Why?” he asks quietly, voice tight.

Arthur nods.

Because he does.

Eames nods too, and then thanks the waiter who has seemingly materialised out of nowhere with their drinks. The tables around them are quiet, and Arthur thinks with vague horror how many of them must have overheard their conversation. He rubs his wrist where Eames held on so tightly, and lunges for the wineglass when it appears in front of him.

“Jesus Christ I need to get drunk,” Arthur says into the blood-red liquid, and downs the entire thing in one go. And then another. And then maybe a shot of some expensive looking liquor. When he resurfaces, Eames is frowning at him.

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“That’s... that’s not quite the reaction I was aiming for,” Eames says slowly, and he looks faintly pained.

“I’m drinking to forget what an utter dick I am,” Arthur reminds him, “not to forget this. I’m sure I’ll be a much nicer person to deal with once I’ve drowned in expensive Chardonnay ’32 and vodka. Less of the fucking overreactions.”

Eames smiles tentatively, “well, I’m sure that can be arranged if you so wish,” and he signals the waiter for more alcohol.

Arthur slams his wine-glass down with a more force than strictly necessary. He pushes away the self-loathing already churning in his gut, and instead focuses on the slight tightness behind Eames’ words, the stiff way he holds himself. And the fact it’s his fault.

“I’m sorry,” he says, again, but Eames just smiles at him.

“Not to worry darling.”

“It _is_ a worry though, I’m the one fucking this up and making it into an _argument_ for god’s sakes, when it really shouldn’t-“

“It’s the way you are Arthur, if in doubt, go on the defensive. It works in most situations, just maybe not the ones where I’m trying to confess my undying-“

“I’m a dick-head,” Arthur interrupts morosely.

“Yes but you’re _my_ dick-head, and that’s what matters,” Eames says smugly.

Arthur snorts into his wine glass.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

Eames chuckles, and then, holding Arthur’s gaze with his impossible eyes says- “[Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GQ5ICXMC4xY) “

Arthur chokes.

“You did—what? You did _not_ just quote ‘Gone With The Wind’ at me.”

Eames laughs outright, and Arthur can see the tension melting from his posture. “I think you’ll find I just did, US’s greatest contribution to modern society in my humble opinion- why, have I offended your delicate sensibilities again?”

“I would kiss you,” Arthur says matter-of-factly, though his voice is a little breathless, because _surely_ Eames couldn’t know that it’s his _one vice_ , that he’s read the book at least a dozen times _, seen the film_ even more than that _,_ “and then possibly drag you back to my cabin- but I’m fucking starving.”

Eames grins.

“My oh my, this evening has taken a turn for the better hasn’t it?” he teases lightly.

“Piss off- I resent repeat references to my dick-headishness and your sweeping charm, so let’s discuss something else.” Arthur flips him off for good measure, but he’s smiling again and Eames looks so _happy_ he can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else.

“Like what?” Eames asks, pouring Arthur another glass of wine- Arthur’s already feeling faintly warm and fuzzy. Jesus he always forgets he’s an utter lightweight.

“Don’t care- as long as it involves alcohol, alcohol, this piano music and more alcohol. Oh, and you too if you like.”

“I do like,” Eames murmurs, then reaches across to run his thumb lightly along the inside of Arthur’s wrist. “How about you tell more about this ‘dragging me off to your cabin’ business hmm?”

Arthur sighs melodramatically. “So self-centred,” he tells the ceiling conversationally, careful not to move his wrist from Eames’ touch, “why must I fall for men whose only interest is to fuck me?”

The words come easily, partly through the drink, that’s undeniable, and partly through Eames’ thumb making steady circles on his wrist bone, and partly because- well, who’s he fucking kidding anymore? They both know it’s the truth.

And Eames, Eames doesn’t stop, or pull away, or gasp in surprise, or make some snide comment on how it’s ‘about bloody time’- he stares- then sniggers, and grins and laughs like it’s killing him.

 

* * *

 

Eames is as good as his word, and by 11 o’clock Arthur is wonderfully tipsy on some ridiculously expensive alcohol. The food is beyond exquisite, Eames insisting they share everything, and it’s only when they’ve finished polishing off the 5th course that Arthur puts his foot down. They’ve never talked so freely before, and Arthur can’t help but think it’s because it’s all out in the open, at last, after 10 years. The thought adds to the alcohol-addled happiness in his gut, and he smiles across at Eames again, just because he can.

Eames grins back, and shakes his head with an amused chuckle.

“What is it?” Arthur asks happily, reaching out to pour himself some more wine. Eames stops him with a gentle hand and a raised eyebrow that vaguely suggests he disapproves.

“You,” Eames says simply, “you’ll be the bloody death of me.”

“Oh,” says Arthur.

Eames laughs again, and holds Arthur’s hand properly in his. It seems now that they can, neither of them can quite get enough of these affectionate touches.

“You know it’s not fair,” Arthur observes astutely, “that I am drunk and you are not.”

“And how’s that unfair?”

“Because I’m the one who needs to stop fucking embarrassing myself and yet-“

“One of us needs to keep their wits about them,” Eames interrupts snootily, which earns him a half-hearted kick from Arthur under the table.

“Jack-ass,” Arthur mutters, because it’s the best thing he can come up with at the moment.

“And you’re an absolute poppet,” Eames tells him fondly, “which leads us to our next line of conversation- I am absolutely desperate for a piss, do excuse me.”

“My god, and his manners are impeccable as well- my mother will be so proud,” Arthur says dryly.

Eames gets up with a grin, flicks his ear and then leans in briefly.

“Try not to get into too much trouble _Arthur_ ,” he breathes, barely louder than a whisper, and Arthur shudders because _no-one_ makes his name sound as sinfully attractive as Eames does. Eames winks, because he’s horribly cliché like that, and sets off navigating the tables towards the toilets.

After about 30 seconds, Arthur gets bored of waiting (he’s always been an agitated drunk) and gets up to follow Eames, because, well, there’s nothing else better for him to do.

That plan falls flat however when Arthur passes the pianist at the grand piano on the small raised platform in the middle of the room.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” he says to himself, though possibly a little too loudly for polite company, “it’s a _Bosendorfer.”_

He can’t quite believe he hadn’t noticed it earlier. The piano is huge, sleek and polished black, reflecting every single candle in the entire room in its dark wood. It is also basically the object of Arthur’s piano-playing teenage fantasises.

The pianist, who is playing speakeasy jazz music as naturally as breathing, glances up and smiles across at him.

“You like her?” he says in an English accent that’s similar to Eames’, “she’s a bit of a beauty isn’t she?”

“A bit?” Arthur repeats faintly because it’s the fucking understatement of the century, and climbs onto the stage to get a closer look.

The man watches Arthur with faint amusement as his fingers continue to dance across the keys. “You know, you’re the first person to have mentioned it, as impossible as that may sound.”

“Fucking incompetents,” Arthur mutters under his breath, chancing reaching a hand out to touch the smooth wood. It doesn’t bear thinking how expensive a Bosendorfer of this quality must have cost.

The pianist laughs, and adds a few complicated trills to his improvisation for Arthur’s sake to show off the inner workings of the instrument.

“You play then?” he asks.

“Did. Haven’t for a while though- used to be able to play Nocturne in C-sharp minor from memory, if I managed to get through it without bursting into tears.” Arthur really has no idea why this perfectly sane man needs to know this. He blames the alcohol. And Eames of course, for providing said-alcohol. And, well, because he blames Eames for everything.

The pianist looks positively delighted. “Well, blow me, you really do know your stuff, and seeing as you just named my all-time favourite Chopin, feel free to consider me open to any requests you may desire.”

“Would you mind if I played something? Just for a minute- give you a break.” Arthur has no idea what he’s doing, but somehow feels that he _has_ to play this piano if it’s the last thing he does. “Please,” he adds, feeling faintly desperate.

The man frowns a little, continuing to play seamlessly even though he’s clearly thinking about something else. Then he glances around and over his shoulder, and shoots Arthur a sheepish grin.

“You’re a god-send; I’ve been dying for a drink for the past half-hour. Just for a minute yeah? And keep it light and jazzy if you can- I hate to think how many rules in my contract I’m breaking here.”

Arthur laughs, and nods, feeling slightly giddy.

“Light, jazzy, no longer than a minute- got it,” he promises, and the man gestures smiling to his seat.

There is a small, complicated manoeuvre whereby the pianist fades his improvisation away so Arthur can take full control without interrupting the flow of music, and at one point both of them have both hands on the keys,  which makes the man chuckle and draws the amused attention of the people sitting at the nearby tables.

But then Arthur is sliding into the man’s seat, changing the melody a little but keeping up with the same sort of pitch and style as best he can.

The man backs away, patting Arthur cheerily on the shoulder, “she’s in your capable hands mate, I owe you one!”

And Arthur is left alone with the piano.

No-one spares him much more than a second glance, and from a distance, Arthur guesses there isn’t really much difference between him and the official pianist; what with their near-identical black three-piece suits and dark slicked-back hair.

It’s as though no-one else is in the room. Each note rings out clear and pitch-perfect, and the keys are heavy and polished and Christ, Arthur had forgotten how much he loves playing. At high school he was always the one who was shit at sports, shit at drama, shit at art, and generally quite shit at socialising- but give him a piano and he ruled the fucking school.

All at once, he knows _exactly_ what he wants to play. His own version of a song he’d listened to so much as a child the words had lost all meaning.

The first few chords are a [little too clunky](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XkhIVqRiHxg), and that’s mainly thanks to the fact he’s practically drunk. He also earns himself a few more glances for changing the style so suddenly, but once the melody weaves itself in, light and wonderfully familiar, Arthur feels people’s accusing expression melt into smiles and fondness at the recognisable piece. The couple nearest him stop their conversation altogether to glance across at each other with knowing smiles. It’s wonderful, deliriously so, and Arthur really should do this more often. He loses himself in the music, in the steady, lazy pace of it all, hands caressing the smooth white keys, tripping up the notes and back down again, adding the odd loose-rhythmic trill just because he can, light and jazzy, just as he’d promised.

“Dream a little dream of me...” Eames sings softly into his ear, and it’s a fucking good thing Arthur is used to interruptions when he plays and doesn’t slam on all the keys in a horribly embarrassing panic when he jumps. As it is, he scoffs quietly to himself, and shakes his head.

Eames’ hand comes to rest warmly on his shoulder. “So I’m assuming this is said-goddamned-instrument that of course you played, being the only child of two Stanford graduates?”

Arthur laughs, and lets the piece the run its course, feeling the ending rising up behind the swell of the music.

“Isn’t she gorgeous,” he muses happily.

“Oi, careful there, I might get jealous.”

“As you should- you’re looking at the most beautiful thing in this room, hell, on this _ship_.”

Arthur moves into the final chords, letting them ring out slowly, savouring each hum of music from the strings. He’s playing quietly, can see the pianist approaching from the other side of the room, glass of brandy in hand, but he’s not really concentrating on anything but the feel of the keys beneath his finger-tips, so it’s a wonder that he even catches Eames hushed words-

“That I am.”

Eames’ hand moves briefly to the back of his neck, lightly thumbing on the clipped short hair there, and Arthur has a hard time suppressing his shiver as the final chord rings out.

There is smattering of polite applause from around them that escalates as other tables join. The passengers have appreciated something familiar and well-known, no matter how expensive their taste in food is. Arthur gets up and ducks his head in half-bow, and gestures to the official pianist who claps him on the back with a jovial grin and thanks him far too much in a quintessentially English sort of way before taking over at the Bosendorf.

Eames moves to wrap a careful arm around Arthur’s waist, which proves just as well, because in his slightly dazed bliss, Arthur completely forgets about the existence of the small step, and very nearly topples face first into the carpet.

Eames catches him as a few people nearby laugh, and tightens his grip- pulling Arthur against him.

“Easy there Mr. Mozart, some fresh air for you I think,” he says teasingly into Arthur’s hair.

Arthur gives a small, pained moan.

“The Mamas & the Papas, Eames, it’s _The Mamas & the Papas_.”

Eames appears to stifle a laugh, because he makes an odd sort of coughing sound, before squeezing Arthur a little tighter and pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Delightful,” Eames says-

“ _U_ _tterly_ delightful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MIDWEEK CHAPTER UPDATE WHAT IS THIS I REALLY DON'T KNOW :) Thank y'all for the comments and kudos and just bothering to *read*- tis much appreciated. 
> 
> (Piano-playing Arthur is COMPLETELY hijacked from the Steinway verse which is simply superb and if you haven't already read it then I am utterly and totally jealous because boy oh boy have you got a treat in store)
> 
> N.B: Sinking ship is coming up I swear, gimme one more chapter of fluff and then all hell will be unleashed have no fear.


	6. "Jack! I'm flying!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I am aware of the new heights of fluff I have reached in writing this *no shame*)
> 
> “Step up onto the railing- keep your eyes closed, do you trust me?” Eames’ voice is eerily similar to Cobb’s, and god, if he doesn't stop Arthur is going to die of not laughing-

“It’s fucking cold out here, I want to go back,” Arthur announces to the empty deck as soon as he steps out of the stairwell. Or rather, stumbles, because there’s a _ledge_ in the doorway, which serves no apparent purpose other than to trip him up, and who fucking designs these things anyway?

And it’s cold. Arthur shudders.

Okay make that _really_ fucking cold.

“You are aware it’s April for right?” Arthur asks Eames conversationally, when Eames emerges from the stairwell too (sans stumbling.)

 A bitter, salty wind whips across the deserted decking.  A towel that someone’s left on one of the sun loungers flutters feebly in the darkness. They’re on the top deck, the least popular, except with perhaps over-excited children. There are no bars, no pools, no shelter and it’s _always_ windy. Arthur thinks he sees a figure disappear through a door further up, back into the warmth of the ship.

 _Sensible_ , Arthur thinks approvingly.

Eames, on the other hand, beams.

“Absolutely it’s April, which means- not a soul in sight. Brilliant.”

“How is anything about this ‘brilliant’,” Arthur deadpans, because apparently he can still do that even when he’s practically hammered.

It’s not as though Eames is completely unaffected by the drink of course. His eyes are a little too bright, his grin slightly lopsided, and his hands- despite repeatedly catching Arthur on the stairs, are warm and clumsy. He is, however, certainly holding his drink better than Arthur.

 _Bastard,_ Arthur thinks, without bite.

“Ah well,” Eames says grandly, making a sweeping gesture that encompasses their small section of deck, “up here there’s minimal lighting which makes for optimum star-gazing conditions.”

Arthur snorts.

Eames raises an eyebrow, as though daring Arthur to contradict another of his Ingenious Ideas.

And Arthur decides that yeah, maybe, just this once, he’ll let Eames lead him into something ridiculous and embarrassing and possibly a little sweet, because he’s drunk,  and Jesus Christ, they’ve practically jumped from flinging abuse and continuous banter to making fucking love declarations in the space of 24 hours and-

“Alright?”

Arthur glances up to see Eames watching him with a soft expression, his eyes dark in the half-light.

Arthur nods, feeling a little dazed and dopey, and lets Eames tug him over to the nearest pair of wooden slated sun loungers.  Eames presses him gently down into one, then drops down on the one next to it.

“So,” Arthur says impassively. “Stars.”

Eames chuckles. It’s loud in the quiet of the upper deck, the only sound the distance churning of water below. Arthur can’t help but stare at the way Eames’ nose crinkles when he laughs, and the fine creases that frame his eyes. He looks vaguely beautiful.

“I know bugger all about stars I’m afraid, was sort of hoping you’d be the one to teach me.”

Arthur harrumphs as indignantly as possible, and turns on his back to stare up into the blackness above them.

Well, it’s not that black at all really.

 The sky is littered with _thousands_ of pinpricks of tiny lights, clustered together in the dark, sharing their shining brightness. The moon is nowhere to be seen.

“There’s a belt. I think- or something like that. Guy called Orion. Up there somewhere anyway,” Arthur suggests intelligently.

“Why darling, I had no idea you were so well-informed-“

“Oh because _you_ ’re so knowledgeable-“

“Actually- while I may not be able to pick out the constellations you seem to know so much about-“

Arthur grins into the darkness, “Piss off.”

“- I do know a thing or two about Orion himself. “

And with that, Eames launches into a tangled, wonderful retelling of the myths surrounding Orion and his immortalisation in the stars. Arthur doesn’t keep track of the story particularly well, his thoughts are far too warm and fuzzy with drink for that, but he can appreciate the lilting cadence of Eames’ voice, how it flows effortlessly over words like _Boeotia_ and _Oenopion_.

They must stay like that for some time, Arthur thinks, because his toes are going numb. Other than that he doesn’t really notice the time passing. His eyes are fixed on the stars, Eames’ voice wrapping itself comfortingly around his mind.

“Sorry, am I sending you to sleep?” Eames asks suddenly. Arthur looks over at him, frowning.

“Like fuck you are. Keep going if you want to, I’m enjoying it. I had no idea you knew all this shit.”

Even in the darkness, Arthur imagines he can see Eames’ cheeks colour a little.

“Classical Mythology,” Eames says quietly after a short pause, “it always was my favourite subject at school. The Greeks and Romans had the best Gods of any civilisation.”

Arthur hums in acknowledgement. It makes sense, now that he knows it. Of course Eames would have been interested in Mythology- in tales of impossible lands and impossible people, constantly shifting their forms and faces.

“Why now, Arthur?”

Arthur looks over at Eames. Eames is staring intently at the sky.

He knows exactly what Eames means, but that doesn’t mean he has to like the question.

“I mean,” Eames says slowly, “why has it taken us this long to _do_ something?”

Arthur laughs, slightly strangled with relief because for a second there he’d thought Eames had directed the question at _him,_ to which he’d have to have answered something along the lines of ‘ _because I was terrified, unconfident 18 year old, you were fucking gorgeous and intelligent and so sure of yourself, I didn’t think I’d even had a chance and pretty much continued to think that up until a few hours ago.’_

Eames wouldn’t judge him, probably, if Arthur came out with all that shit, but Arthur has some pride for fuck’s sake, so he says instead-

"A little bird suggested that maybe we should fucking do something about all this apparent sexual tension that’s been following us around for years."

"Let me guess,” Eames drawls, smiling slightly, “this little bird's name is Ariadne."

"The bird prefers to remain anonymous."

Eames snorts, “She’s been planning this all along hasn’t she? Well, you’ve got to hand it to her-“

He cuts off when voices float up the stairwell. A second later a tipsy looking young woman appears through the door, clutching her ridiculous fur coat. A thin man steps out behind her, a hand on her arm. They both stop short at the sight of Arthur and Eames.

Eames waves hello.

The woman collapses into giggles, leaning against the wall. The man stands there, watching Eames awkwardly, until he starts tugging his girlfriend back towards the stairs.

“Sorry, didn’t know it was taken!” the woman shouts over her shoulder in a strong New York accent, laughing drunkenly.

The man throws them one, last, strangely furtive look at the two of them, before he disappears down the stairs, the woman’s laugh echoing up after them.

“Beep beep,” Arthur mumbles half-heartedly, smiling to himself.

“What’s this? Playing microwaves without me now?”

“No you fucker,” Arthur giggles, downright _giggles_ Jesus Christ-

“Toasters then? I do hate being kept out of the loop-“

“No, no- it’s my gaydar. I used to pretend it was like an actual metal dictator, when I was younger. That guy. ‘Bout as straight as a bit of cooked spaghetti.”

“You used to go around making beeping noises whenever an eligible member of the male sex caught your eye?” Eames asks incredulous, rolling over onto his side to look at Arthur properly, “are you pulling my leg?”

“No. Unfortunately. I had depressingly little else to do as a teenager.”

Arthur stares him down, frowning seriously. Because he is serious.

Eames tries, and fails, to keep a straight face.

He’s laughing so hard that it’s almost to the point of insulting, Arthur thinks amusedly. After a moment more of watching Eames struggle to catch his breath, he gets clumsily to his feet and flounces off in mock-offence because he’s always wanted to do that, and yet has never had the assurance that he will be followed.

Eames joins him at the railing a second later.

Arthur sighs melodramatically, and stares pointedly out to sea, leaning against the biting cold of the metal. It’s windier out away from the shelter of their chairs, and the freezing air claws past his scarf down his shirt. He shivers, and shifts slightly into the long line of warmth that is Eames’ body against his side.

Wordlessly, Eames slips his dark woollen coat off and tucks it over Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur turns to reprimand him, remind him that he is in actual fact _not_ a 5 year old whose forgotten it’s winter- he just left his coat in his room, and it’s Eames’ fault their out here anyway and how can Arthur be expected-

The words die in his throat when Eames catches his eye and smiles, gently, cautiously; as though he knows he’s pushing his luck but going with it anyway.

“Allow me,” he says quietly. It’s very nearly a question.

Arthur swallows and nods.

They stay like that for some time, leaning into the salty wind, staring out at the dark, shifting movement of waves far below. The coat is warm, but that doesn’t stop Arthur leaning against Eames. Because Arthur is a little drunk. And Eames is really _very_ warm.

And Arthur can.

Eames chuckles to himself, shaking his head, and throwing Arthur a side-long glance.

“It’s nothing,” he says in response to Arthur’s raised eyebrow, “just, never thought we’d be one for this sort of thing.”

_We._

The word curls warm and pleasantly unfamiliar in Arthur’s stomach.

“Oh?”

“Well, I mean, let’s face it. This is almost... sickeningly romantic.”

Arthur snorts.

“We might as well go the whole way- the bow’s just up there Arthur, we could have a proper Titanic moment,” he grins at the thought, “and send Ari a photo- God, she’d be beside herself.”

“What, at us or the blatant film reference?” Arthur asks, laughing.

Eames considers. “Probably both- come on, let’s do it,” and he’s tugging Arthur’s elbow away from the railing.

“ _No_ -“ Arthur insists, grinning, and he thwacks Eames with his scarf.

“It’ll be hilarious pet-“

“Jesus Christ _no_ Eames, we’re not 12 years-“

“Oh now don’t be a spoilsport-“

“No way in _hell_ are you getting me up there-“

But Eames is shifting closer, leaning in so he can whisper in Arthur’s ear-

“ _Close your eyes, go on-“_

Arthur stifles a smile.

 _“Step up onto the railing- keep your eyes closed, do you trust me?”_ Eames’ voice is eerily similar to Cobb’s, and god, if he doesn’t stop Arthur’s going to die of not laughing-

“As much as I trust Yusuf’s cat with a PASIV,” Arthur replies as coolly as he can.

“Oh well thanks-a-bloody-“ Eames mutters, slipping back into his usual cadence, but he’s moving back from the railing, pressing warm against Arthur’s back, and Arthur can’t quite find it in himself to argue anymore.

 _“Open your eyes”_ Eames murmurs. His hands skate along the back of both of Arthur’s arms, smoothing down his coat sleeves before reaching his hands. Eames is shockingly warm, and Arthur jumps a little when their fingers intertwine. He does close his eyes now, leaning back into Eames’ body, smiling to himself.

 _“Jack, I’m flying!”_ Eames whispered in a reverent, falsely soprano Winslet impression, and Arthur can’t help it. He collapses into giggles.

Arthur laughs until he cries; genuine fucking tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks, and when he pulls his hand out of Eames’ to wipe them away and turns round, Eames is watching him with such unabashed affection that Arthur feels a little light-headed.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” Arthur tells him when he gets his breath back.

Eames grins, slow and sure, “Oh I’m full of surprises me.”

Arthur smiles, helplessly, back, “As I’m learning.”

Eames kisses Arthur’s nose because he’s a bastard likes that, then frowns and insists that they go indoors because ‘ _Jesus no living person should have a nose that cold Arthur’_.

Arthur is used to Eames continually defying his expectations, so he really shouldn’t be surprised that instead of going down the sex route that Arthur would have happily agreed to, Eames walks him half-way across the ship back to Arthur’s own cabin, bidding him goodnight at the door.

And Arthur shouldn’t be surprised in the least that Eames holds his hand the entire way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SINKING IS HAPPENING NEXT CHAPTER. I KID YOU NOT :D Thanks for anyone still hanging in there after ploughing through all the angst/fluff. Your patience shall be rewarded.


	7. Saito is completely unperturbed by Arthur's impending death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s hopeless. It’s all hopeless. Someone as well-off and well-connected as Ryan Scott will have left nothing to chance. The ship is sinking and there is absolutely nothing that Arthur can do to stop it.

Arthur is woken by an explosion that rocks the entire ship.

His overhead locker bursts open at the violent, shuddering motion, and, as Arthur is thrown from his bunk, his luggage comes crashing on top of him.

“Fucking ow,” he says from the floor to no-one in particular.

For a moment, Arthur just lies there, sprawled on the carpet, blinking blearily up at the ceiling, brain slowly registering the numbing pain in his arm from the goddamn suitcase. His hangover seems to have come on shockingly fast; there is already a persistent pounding at the back of his head.

Arthur belated realises that the pounding is someone hammering on his door.

“ _Arthur_!” Eames’ frantic voice is muffled through the locked door, the handle rattling. Arthur can hear other things too, screams, shouts, running feet-

“Arthur for fuck’s sake open this door right the _fuck_ now or so help me I will put a fire extinguisher through the bloody lock, I shit you not, I’ve got one _right_ here-“

Arthur pulls himself into a sitting position in the middle of his strewn luggage and duvet. He screws his eyes shut against the sleep addled fog still pervading any logical thought process and runs a tired hand through his hair.

“Don’t you dare break the door Eames,” he calls hoarsely, because Eames is just the sort of idiot who _would_ **,**  so he starts to disentangle himself from the blankets, pulling himself to his feet.

“-Fuck the door Arthur, we need to get a fucking move on- Jesus Christ if you don’t open up this bloody second-“

Another tremulous explosion sends Arthur staggering into the wardrobe. Outside, the shouts intensify, and he hears Eames curse loudly. The door handle continues to rattle- Eames is going to snap it off at this rate.

“Unless this ship is fucking sinking you do not have permission to break down the door!” Arthur yells, voice still rough with sleep, but seriously what the hell-

There is an ominous pause.

And then Eames breaks down the door.

Arthur stares at him.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Eames looks a complete mess. He’s clearly not been awake much longer than Arthur has- hair a dishevelled mess, the faint imprint of a pillow on his left cheek.

None of this, however, is what gets Arthur’s attention.

There is a strange flicker of brightness in Eames’ eyes, barely noticeable for anyone who hadn’t been watching him for as long as Arthur had, a brightness that doesn’t belong there, that has never belonged there before, not truly, not like this-

Panic.

_Oh fuck,_ Arthur thinks, feeling an uncharacteristic spike of terror.

Because they’re not in a dream. They’re not going to be able to shoot themselves awake, blink open their eyes to stare up at a warehouse ceiling, return to relative safety. Not this time.

A child wails in the corridor outside, a low, desolate sound, and the moment is gone.

“Get dressed,” Eames barks, even though that’s exactly what Arthur was about to do, and he goes over to Arthur’s bedside table to snatch up his gun, opens the small drawer to find the spare, and reloads them both with sharp, methodical movements.

Arthur yanks on his pants, shrugging on a loose shirt, and _fuck_ he wishes he’d brought looser fitting clothing, and a warmer jacket and-

He gives up with his shirt buttons halfway through, opting instead for shoes and his long winter coat.

Eames throws him his newly loaded Glock, which Arthur snatches out of the air, and then they’re gone, out into the corridor.

Arthur deftly locks the damaged door behind him, because fucking _sinking_ or not- no-one was getting their hands on his laptop and the PASIV. _That_ was something that he’s never going to let happen- to hell with the situation.

Eames is silent beside him and Arthur thinks fleetingly back to the wine and the dinner and the piano and the stars. It seems like months, _years_ since that brief moment of dream-like, alcohol-fazed happiness, when it can’t have been more than a few hours ago.

“Time?” he asks Eames shortly, as they set off down the corridor, dodging several harried looking families clutching suitcases and small children.

“Just gone 1:30am. We were asleep about an hour. Haven’t a fucking clue what’s going on. There’s been 4 explosions in total, regularly spaced, each stronger than the last.”

Arthur nods curtly, filing away that information for future reference. Something about this whole situation sets his teeth on edge. It’s terrifying enough as it is, but there’s something missing, something obvious that he’s not remembering-

“Hang on,” Eames mutters abruptly, stopping still in the middle of the corridor to frown over at the staircase and lifts, “where the buggering hell _is_ everyone?”

Arthur stops short. Eames has a point, the ship is apparently _sinking_ , and yet they’ve only seen a few families. The stairwell is empty aside from a small stuffed rabbit, strewn forlornly on the bottom step. There are no crew members in sight, and despite the ominous impending disaster, the titling floor beneath their feet, no alarm has been raised.

Arthur frowns.

“Fuck this,” Eames says loudly, and crosses the hallway in two long strides to the fire assembly point. He smashes the breakable glass with his elbow in a move that Arthur vaguely recognises from some form of martial arts, and slams the emergency button.

The noise is _horrific_.

The screeching of the fire alarm is appallingly loud, and the effect almost instantaneous. Up and along the four corridors they can see down from the hallway, cabin doors fly open, sleepy-looking passengers emerging blearily into the artificial light. Arthur can almost see the self-same panic grip each person individually as awareness returns to their eyes.

To illustrate the situation, the ship lurches again with another hollow explosion from far below. Arthur stumbles backwards towards the stairs, and Eames grabs his elbow tightly, pulling him upright.

Arthur gives Eames a brief smile in acknowledgement, and the grim wince of a thing he gets in return is so unfamiliar it’s painful.

A clattering of feet from above signals the arrival of a crew member, who appears at the top of the stairs. He’s young, mid-twenties at most, and dressed in the simple, smart uniform of the crew who work in the Captain’s Quarters. Eames catches his attention and signals him over. 

“What’s going on?” Arthur yells to him over the wailing fire alarm, and the man shakes his head helplessly. He looks as though he’s about to pass out.

 “We’re sinking. Engine’s down- somehow the entire valve has shattered, I don’t know how- could’ve been a malfunction but she’s just had a full mechanics check-up and the engineers can’t explain it...And, well, I’ve just found the first mate and he’s- he isn’t-“

The man trails off, face white.

“Go on,” Eames says firmly, and somehow his voice carries easily over the screaming alarm and the panicked shouting.

 “Well. He’s...dead. Shot himself in the head by the looks of it. I can’t find the Captain either- someone’s jammed the door to the signal room and-“

“Officer,” Eames says, in a voice so commanding Arthur does a double-take, “We don’t need to hear anymore. What’s important now is the present- not the past. There are more than 800 people aboard this ship, people whose lives are now at stake. You know the drill for an emergency such as this- do your job.”

The young officer snaps to attention stiffly, and salutes Eames.

Eames nods, expression still schooled into something hard and authoritative.

 “What the hell was _that_?” Arthur asks under his breath, as the officer sets off at a jog down the hall- seemingly having found his tongue enough to bark out emergency procedures to pyjama clad passengers.

“ _That_ was someone in need of orders,” Eames says quietly, “Surely you can remember what it was like when you first started- the Senior Officer was a lifeline when everything went to shit.”

“Eames, I _was_ the Senior Officer,” Arthur says reproachfully.

Eames sighs, lips quirking in a small smile.

“Of course you were. Now, I don’t know about you, but I think we should go and check on Scott- I have a horrible feeling about this.”

 

* * *

 

“Floor 8. You know the room number right?” Arthur asks as they set off down the stairs.

“Sure. Somewhere between 18 and 110.”

“Oh brilliant. That really narrows it down,” Arthur mutters, and neatly sidesteps a huge trunk that lies in the middle of the staircase.

“Have some faith pet,” Eames calls from behind him. He sounds like he’s trying for jovial, but not quite managing it. “Scott’s in 56- James’ 54.”

They move as quickly down the corridor of the ridiculously luxurious Premium Suites as fast as they can without actually running. They don’t draw their guns, there are still families about after all, but Arthur finds it strangely comforting that Eames keeps his hand inside his coat the entire way, close to where his gun is holstered. His own hand frequently drifts to the Glock in the waistband too, the hard weight a reassuring familiarity.

Eames is all ready to bust the door open with one well-calculated shove close to the hinge, but Arthur stops him at the last second, a hand on his shoulder.

The door is already ajar. The lock destroyed.

“Oh fuck,” Eames mutters under his breath. Arthur swallows, carefully removing his gun properly this time, flicking the safety off, then kicking the door fully open.

The room is a bloodbath. Two bodyguards that Arthur recognises from that first night in the restaurant lie face down in the carpet, gaping bloody holes in the backs of their heads. The plush pink carpet is horribly stained, and the signs of a fierce fight are evident- chairs over-turned, mirrors smashed. Somehow the marble coffee table has been split cleanly in half, and Arthur can’t help but notice with a wince that it looks like bodyguard number one’s head was used to do so.

Scott’s in the next room, still in his bed. His eyes are wide open, dull and lifeless, staring unseeingly at the far wall. A small neat red hole in his left temple is the only obvious sign. His son is sprawled awkwardly on the balcony, a blooming dark stain across his shirt.

“Jesus Christ,” Arthur breathes. He didn’t anticipate anything like this, could never have imagined that the job would fall this foul, there were no signs, no warnings, just this, their mark in cold blood-

_There are always signs_ , a vicious voice in his head hisses, _there are always warnings- you were just too distracted to notice them._

“That crewmember mentioned something about the signal room,” Eames says quietly, but Arthur flinches anyway, “it’s only one floor up from here.”

Arthur nods numbly. Eames wants verification, further proof, _evidence_ to the awful truth that both of them already know.

As expected, the signal room looks as though it’s been hit by a small tornado. Every single computer is smashed to pieces, the radios are nothing more than a mangled mess of wire and plastic, and torn papers and files from the cabinets drift across the floor- blown by a cold breeze whistling through the cracked window. Two young technicians are dead in their chairs, and the emergency communication circuit board they are supposed to be manning is barley identifiable. The blank hum of the broken radar is the only sound.

Arthur feels light-headed.

“How could I have missed this?” he asks aloud, and Eames rounds on him instantly.

“No one could’ve seen this coming Arthur, _no one,_ so don’t you bloody dare go blaming yourself. Whoever wants to intentionally sink this ship is out of their fucking mind- it’s not for us to try and understand.”

“But _who_?” Arthur says wretchedly, leaning against the control panel, “who would want Scott dead _now,_ he’s dying anyway Jesus Christ, and why the fuck would they need to sink the ship as well?”

Eames levels him with a careful look.

“The same person who has something to gain from Scott’s imminent death. The same person who has something to lose from the Will being changed in the near future. The same person who hired us in the fucking first place.”

And oh _fuck of course_.

Ryan.

_...He was always one for the dramatics..._

_...it was always assumed that they hated each other’s guts..._

_...4 explosions in total, regularly spaced, each stronger than the last..._

_...engineers can’t explain it..._

_...Shot himself in the head by the looks of it..._

 “Think about it Arthur,” Eames says, and his voice is shaking with something that definitely isn’t fear, “Tragic cruise sinking, emergency services don’t arrive quick enough because of a signalling malfunction and 200-odd people die, Scott and his son along with them. It’s a tad less obvious than Scott being shot out in the street isn’t it? Ryan was always doubtful we’d be able to pull it off- and now he’s making sure. Kill Scott himself and then sink the evidence.”

“The evidence with 798 innocent civilians onboard,” Arthur says blankly, “including two international criminals who have enemies rich enough to pay for their murder. Jesus fucking Christ- he’s _insane_.”

“And it’ll have all have been one horrible accident, that’ll be impossible to trace back to Ryan himself who will no doubt have a perfectly legitimate alibi with plenty of powerful witness,” and there, the bite in his voice, the tightness in his jaw- well concealed but easily detectable by someone who has watched Eames as long as Arthur has. Anger.

Arthur reaches out instinctively to touch Eames’ arm, an empty gesture of comfort- but Eames pulls away and goes over to the control panel. With hunched shoulders, he begins flicking various switches and reconnecting wires.

It’s hopeless, it’s all hopeless, someone as well-off and well-connected as Ryan Scott will have left nothing to chance. The ship is sinking and there is absolutely nothing that Arthur can do to stop it.

He steps out into the corridor, suddenly desperate to get away from the humming radar that drills a hole behind his eyes, and the blank stares of the young officers, and Eames, silently radiating fury from the corner.

He glances out of the porthole at the end of the corridor, trying to ignore the desolate, crushing feeling of despair from consuming him entirely, trying to fight back the voice in his head that hisses on some horrible frozen loop-

\- _failure, you failed, you failed him and he’s going to die because of it, because of you-_

From the window Arthur can just make out the main deck. Even from here, he can tell it’s utter chaos. With half the crew dead, and the other half only partly aware of the true horror of the situation, there is no semblance of control amongst the panicked passengers. They swarm to the life-boats like starving prisoners to a loaf of bread, desperate, clamouring, lost in their own mindless terror. The never-ending crowd succeeds in pushing a life-boat onto its side, upright, but at the last second Arthur sees what’s going to happen before it does. The boat balances precariously, held down by the few ropes the crowd haven’t cut yet, when another explosion from deep in the bowls in the ship sends the boat rolling.

Arthur watches the life-boat fall, almost in slow motion, over the side of the ship and crash into the water below. Even from this distance, Arthur can hear the sudden shocked silence that descends on the deck.

The over-turned boat drifts away on the inky black water, a sickening reminder of the 24 people who no longer have a secure seat to safety.

It’s then that Arthur realises the boat is not alone. In the distance, barely visible through the dark, are more boats, bobbing orange and empty amongst the rolling waves.

Arthur’s blood turns cold.

There must be at least a dozen or so lifeboats out to sea that have been purposefully cut loose of their bounds, pushed silently into the water as the ship slept.

All part of the plan. All part of the game. The more deaths there are, the less attention Scott’s disappearance receives.

And quite suddenly, Arthur doesn’t feel helpless or useless or a failure. He feels _angry_. A fierce, burning hatred at the impossibly cruel selfishness of the situation- at Ryan who is committing mass murder for the sake of a few million and a house in Barbados.

Eames reappears from the signalling room, staring down at something in his hands with a hard expression. It takes Arthur a second to recognise it- the Captain’s hat. He must be dead as well then, Arthur thinks bitterly.

Eames glances up at him, and some of what Arthur’s feeling must be apparent because all of the colour drains from Eames’ face-

“Fuck Arthur, what happened?” he says breathlessly, and is at Arthur’s side in a heartbeat, running a reassuring palm down Arthur’s side. Arthur realises his hands are shaking.

“I’m fine,” he says tightly, which is so untrue it’s laughable, but Eames knows what he means. And then something occurs to him through the burning anger and Eames’ distracting hand, which has now found a place on the back of his neck, thumb rubbing small circles at the top of his spine.

“We should call Ariadne. If we can.”

Eames lets out a low whistle, half-smiling. Neither of them particularly wants to face the wrath of Ariadne’s concern at 2:00am in the morning. Or ever, actually, Arthur thinks somewhat wryly.

It’s a testament to how much Ariadne loves her ancient Nokia and therefore refuses to sleep without it under her pillow, when she picks up on the second ring. Arthur puts her on speaker phone.

 “What. The. Hell,” she mutters darkly, voice rough with sleep and despite everything, that alone brings a faint quirk to Eames’ lips. “Arthur it’s the middle of the night- you better have a pretty damn good reason for-“

“Ariadne,” Arthur says in greeting, “I haven’t got long, so if you could listen carefully it’d be appreciated. The ship we’re on- the ship’s--”

His voice suddenly fails him. Under Eames’ critical gaze, he coughs and tries again.

“The ship is sinking. The Captain’s dead, as is Scott, as is half the fucking crew, and someone has destroyed the signalling room. You’ve got-“

“ _WHAT?”_ It may have taken Ariadne a little while to catch up and undergo the transition from sound asleep to all systems go, but the screech through the phone is positively deafening. Eames smiles a little at the floor. There is a distinctly unimpressed mumble of protest from someone in the background, and Arthur feels vaguely guilty for interrupting Ariadne’s night.

 “The engines have been purposefully blown up- we’re fairly sure Ryan’s behind everything. He didn’t trust us to get the job done so killed Scott himself and is sinking the evidence-”

“NO! Hold the shitting-hell-up,   _Arthur_ , what the actual _FUCK_ \- _NO_ MOLLY _**YOU**_ SHUT UP, THEY’RE ON A SINKING _SHIP_ OH MY GOD-“

“Who’s with you?” Arthur asks sharply, before Ariadne says anything else.

“Oh it’s just Molly”- there’s an indignant squawk in the background- “Okay just-Molly-who-I-may-been-dating-for-3-months,” Eames shakes his head in fond disbelief, “but your lack of interest in my personal life is really not the matter at hand here; the ship is _sinking_? Like, _really?”_

“It’s not that big a deal Ari, we have lifeboats,” Arthur says firmly, and decides that now might not be the best time to tell her that half of said-lifeboats are drifting across the Atlantic. Empty.

“How can you even _say_ that?” Ariadne asks in a strangled sort of voice, “How on God’s sweet and plentiful _earth_ does this fail to quantify as a Big Fucking Deal?”

There is more noise in the background. The rustling of sheets as Ariadne climbs out of bed, the faint electronic bleep as she turns on her laptop. _Good girl_ , Arthur thinks distractedly.

“Is Eames with you?” she asks suddenly, fearful.

“Of course I am pet, do you really think I’d let our Arthur go running off without me?” Eames tells her gently, a soft, smiling lilt to his voice that’s all show and heart-wrenchingly painful.

“Thank god,” Ariadne breathes down the phone, “Stick together alright? Don’t you dare split up so you can be all brave and heroic okay?”

“Oh I don’t think I’ll be letting him out of my sight Ariadne,” Eames says softly.

There is a pause at the other end of the line. Molly-apparent-girlfriend-of-3-months seems to have gotten up too, and is now asking Ariadne in not-so-subtle whispers what the actual hell is going on.

Arthur realises that Ariadne is most likely trying to work out if Eames means anything by his last statement. 

“Your cinephilic dreams have come true Ariadne,” Arthur says quietly all of a sudden, and he doesn’t know why he’s telling her this, when there’s a someone with her, when Eames is right _there_ , “I finally gave Eames a chance, and I’m on a ship sinking like the fucking Titanic.”

It’s all horribly ironic, Arthur thinks, throat tight, and he tries to remember if James Cameron’s epic has a happy ending or not.

Eames doesn’t try to catch his eye, and he doesn’t say anything cringe worthy or teasing like “about bloody time too” or “knew I’d win you round in the end,” both of which are nauseatingly true. Instead, his hand finds Arthur and squeezes. Hard.

Ariadne makes a choked sort of sound down the other end of the line. No one says anything for a few long seconds, other than Molly The Girlfriend, who murmurs, _“fuck that’s awful”_ and Arthur wants to hand it to her for capturing the basic conclusion of their situation.

“What can I do?” Ariadne asks quietly, eventually, and there, _that’s_ the girl Arthur has always been so proud of. The Keep Calm and Carry-the-fuck On Ariadne.

“I don’t think anyone’s managed to send a signal out for help,” Arthur admits, thinking of the tangle of radio wires, “so call the UK and Irish Emergency Services. US Coastguard as well if you can, though I think we’re probably nearer to Belfast than New York.”

Nearer being about 2700km compared to 2900km if Arthur’s calculations are correct.  It occurs to him that this may be another cruelly ingenious part of Ryan’s plan. Sink the ship in the _middle_ of the Atlantic for maximum death, maximum tragedy and minimum fuss over Scott.

“Alright?” Arthur asks. Ariadne has gone quiet again.

“Yeah,” she says a little shakily, “you just- you keep safe alright? And look after Eames.”

Arthur glances up. Eames has moved to lean against the opposite wall, head bowed. He’s tucked the Captain’s hat under his arm, and is holding his gun in one hand, and his totem in the other. His thumb presses along the ridged edge of the poker chip, and Arthur feels a pang in his chest, because he knows the feeling, he really does-

“I promise,” Arthur says roughly, more to himself than Ariadne, “I won’t call again till we’re off.” And then he hangs up before she can protest.

Eames looks up, gives him a tight smile. “Any other useful contacts?”

Arthur starts to shake his head, thinking of the Russian Mafia gang leaders under X and V in his address book, and the Mexican drug lord with the ridiculously long name under C-

But then-

“Yes,” Arthur says abruptly, and flicks the phone open again.

“Mr. Arthur?” comes the lightly accented voice on the other end, “It’s been a while, I’m glad to hear from you. I am, however, aware that it is the middle of the night in America. I assume this is not a conversational call?”

“Saito-San,” Arthur greets in reply, smiling a little when Eames grins, properly, for the first time since this whole thing started. “I’m afraid I’ve got a favour to ask.”

“A favour you will be able to pay me back for?” Saito asks pointedly, and it’s all charm and polite gratitude that Arthur held together the job that secured his name in the history books, but Saito has always reminded Arthur of a shark. Sleek, powerful, maybe even beautiful- but in a quietly deadly way. A smile with razor sharp teeth.

“I’m on a ship that’s currently sinking into the Atlantic- you will no doubt be able to track my co-ordinates from this phone after our conversation. No distress signal has been sent out, due to a sabotage of the electronics, so Mr. Eames and myself would appreciate-“

“Some helicopter support. Perhaps the US Marines.” Saito finishes silkily, completely unperturbed by Arthur’s impending death.

“Well, yes- if at all possible,” Arthur says, feeling a little stupid.

There is a prolonged pause, then-

“It is done. Give my best wishes to Mr. Eames.” And the line goes dead.

“So?” Eames asks as Arthur pockets the phone, “is he going to help?”

“Yes. Maybe. I haven’t a fucking clue,” Arthur admits, “He’s so goddamned cryptic all the time. He did mention the Marines though-“

“Oh brilliant,” Eames mutters, and sets off down the corridor, “just what we need- another load of jacked up American teenagers with their big guns racing to save the day- fan-bloody-tastic-“

Another colossal explosion reverberates through the ship, the floor shuddering beneath their feet. Arthur slams sideways into the wall, Eames hitting a door a little further up equally hard, and smashing the small window. The aftershocks continue for another few seconds, tremors that make the walls creak, and the lights flicker-

 Then silence.

Arthur can hear nothing but his own harsh breathing, his heart battering his ribs.

_That had to be the last one_ , he thinks desperately, _they can’t possibly blow up anything else down there-_

There is a distant groan of several hundred tonnes of metal, the kind that makes the hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck stand on end, then the entire ship lurches, slowly, sickeningly, to the side. Arthur can almost feel the exact moment that the floor starts to tilt beneath him.

If they weren’t sinking before, they certainly are now.


	8. Down on the Deck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur stands up on the bench above the crowd, draws his Glock from his waistband, snaps off the silencer and fires once into the air. A warning shot.
> 
> “PLEASE CAN EVERYONE CALM THE FUCK DOWN.”
> 
> -In which Arthur is a true BAMF and Eames pulls a Bond.

They decide to go down onto the main deck, partly out of instinct and partly because Eames argues they might be able to glean a better idea of what the actual fuck is going on. It’s a fairly unlikely reality, but, Arthur thinks, as Eames stops briefly to direct a terrified-looking young couple to take the 3rd corridor stairs because it’s faster to the deck, it’s a hope all the same. And hope is pretty much all they have left now.

The main deck is in complete chaos.

 Illuminated by the emergency flood-lights, the outdoor decked area is unnaturally harsh compared to the infinite darkness beyond the railing, the lines between the sea and sky impossible to distinguish. The crowd hems Arthur in immediately, screams and hysterical crying clamouring his ears, a wave of noise and panic so loud and over-whelming for a second Arthur feels as though he’s going to pass out.

Eames wraps a strong arm around his waist and pulls him close against his side. He leans down to whisper against the shell of Arthur’s ear- “Not letting you out of my sight, remember?”

It proves difficult. It’s as though the crowd _wants_ to separate them, scrabbling at Eames’ coat, yanking Arthur’s limbs- it hurts and it’s terrifying and it’s all too much-

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur spots two women fighting over a child’s life-jacket. Except it’s a far cry from the cool sarcasm and snide bitchy comments that normally are involved in stand offs between your average yummy mummies. These women are literally rolling on the decking, kicking and biting and scratching, eyes wide and feral, teeth bared. Their children stand to one side. A boy is staring vacantly at the deck as though he’s trying to block it out, and a girl watches her mother fight like an animal, silent tears streaming down her cheeks.

Arthur snaps.

He pulls himself free of Eames’ iron grip and lunges for the nearest mother, yanking her hands behind her back and pulling her upright. She turns her anger on him, twisting and snarling in his grip, but he only pulls her hands more tightly.

“Your daughter needs a mother,” he tells her harshly through gritted teeth, and, just like that, the woman goes limp against him.

Arthur lets go, taking a step back.

The other woman is clambering shakily to her feet, blood dripping from a deep finger-nail scratch in her forehead. She stares at her opponent with a horrified dawning realisation.

Arthur stoops to pick up the small life-jacket from the floor. Without even thinking about it, he shrugs his own jacket off, the one he’d snatched up from a stairwell, and hands it to the listless boy. He gives the smaller one to the girl, who can’t be much older than 8 years old.

When he can’t quite bare to look at the scene any longer, to be reminded of how humans can forget all humanity so easily when their own necks are at stake, he turns back to the wall of shoving people.

Eames is gone.

Arthur curses loudly under his breath, though it’s barely audible to his ears amongst the tumultuous noise of the crowd. He should have kept Eames in his sight, he shouldn’t have pulled away without explaining- because now he’s gone and lost him.

“ _Eames_ ,” Arthur yells on a whim, but his half-hearted attempt is swallowed up in everyone else’s screams, in the children’s wails. The crowd surges past him, everyone seemingly with an end direction that’s slipping out of their grasp. The memory of the London Underground floods Arthur’s thoughts, the pushing and shoving and selfish perseverance, and Eames, Eames talking quietly down the phone, his voice so calming and familiar. He stops for a second, breathless, fighting back the torrent of emotion that grips his chest.

But it does no good to stop in a panicked mob. Arthur is buffeted by people, shoved backwards until he nearly falls. He pulls himself together, pushing back where he can, parting the masses with his shoulder because _Eames_ for fuck’s sake, he’s in love with the man and he’s not about to let him go like this.

Arthur reaches the edge of the deck unwittingly. Here it’s relatively calm. The ones who are too frail and elderly or are have children too young to face the crowd, stand, huddled, by the ships’ walls. There is no panic here, only quiet desperation. Arthur turns to see an elderly couple, a couple he recognises from the first hour aboard the ship- when Eames had come up with his ridiculous plan and caged Arthur in against the railing. The concerned expression that had melted into a small, understanding smile when Arthur had relaxed, when he’d stopped fighting against Eames.

The small woman, her knuckles gnarled with arthritis, the deep lines on her face mapping out her life’s story, suddenly notices him. She smiles at him just like she had before, small and disquiet, and far more knowing than any stranger should be.

“You remind me of my boy,” she says softly, suddenly, her voice so light and thin the most gentle of winds could carry it away.

Arthur nods in return, because he can’t quite muster up a smile at the moment, and the woman’s brow furrows, her lips quirk in question, and Arthur sees her glance around them, realise Arthur is alone and-

Her expression crumples into something horribly resembling pain. It’s not sympathetic or pitying, or even understanding. It’s so, so much worse.

“He’ll be fine- he _is_ fine,” Arthur says hoarsely, and turns away, pushing through the wall of people surrounding them, because he can’t stay here either.

Arthur tries to move vaguely in the direction of the ship’s helm, but he’s beginning to feel more and more desperate. He has _no_ hope of finding Eames like this, the chances of bumping into him are so slim they’re not even worth considering, and Arthur can almost _feel_ the restrained panic bubbling inside of him. The mob psychology is catching. It’s like fighting a tsunami and Arthur is aware of his heart-rate increasing, his breaths shortening, the desire to call out like everyone else burning in the back of his throat, and he needs to get a hold of himself, needs to calm _the fuck_ down-

And that’s when Arthur realises he’s not alone.  

The boy barely reaches Arthur’s hip. He can’t be much older than 4 years old, and he’s holding onto the fabric of Arthur’s trousers with a white knuckled grip. Clenched in his other hand is a small scrap of white towelling cloth. The boy looks up, sensing he’s been noticed.

 Unlike the other screaming and wailing children surrounding them- he is absolutely silent.

In that second, Arthur realises quite suddenly that this child, _somebody’s_ child, is his responsibility. In this moment, this boy’s survival, fragile, tangible, like a tiny butterfly caught out in a fierce gale, is in Arthur’s hands.

In the midst of the jostling, shoving, crying and yelling, Arthur crouches down so he is at eye-level with the boy.

The boy watches him with wide, fearful eyes.

“Hi,” Arthur says gently, “my name’s Arthur, what’s yours?”

There is a pause.

Then-

“Toby,” comes the barely audible reply. The slightest hint of an American accent.

Arthur smiles at him, open and friendly, as if the ground wasn’t disappearing into the ocean beneath their feet, as if the chaos around them was all part of some game; as if nobody was going to die tonight.

“Hey Toby- shall we try and find your mom and dad? That sound like a good plan?”

Toby nods, his small hand never once letting go of Arthur’s trouser leg. He blinks a couple of times, eyes shining. He brings the white cloth close to his face.

 _Please don’t cry, please don’t_ **cry** Arthur begs internally, _please, I don’t know what I’m doing as it is_.

“I thought so,” he says instead, keeping his voice measured and even, “you’re being really brave you know. _Really_ brave. Your mom’s gonna be so proud- c’mon, let’s go find her, yeah?”

Tobies nods again, with a little more vigour, and slowly let’s go of Arthur’s trousers.

Arthur sweeps him up at once, not knowing a thing about children, but knowing this at least.

“Hold on tight,” he says to Toby, curled up small and shivering against his chest, and sets off down towards the side of the deck again.

The horrible, burning panic has gone, Arthur realises numbly, now that he has something to focus on other than himself. He thinks back to how close he was to losing it, how  close he was to being swept up along with everyone else’s instinctive fear, and shudders lightly. Toby tightens his grip on Arthur’s shirt, somehow making himself even smaller in Arthur’s arms. The message is clear-

_Please, please don’t put me down and leave me._

Arthur deftly unbuttons his coat with one hand. He carefully manoeuvres Toby so he can wrap the coat around the boy as well to try and keep him a little warmer, a little safer.

And that’s when Arthur sees it, and a half-formed idea begins to manifest itself in his mind.

The bench is sitting unwittingly in the centre of the deck, and the centre of the crowd. Its secured feet, hammered into the decking, have stopped it from being jostled and the crowd swarm past it unseeingly. Most of the benches are taken by family groups clustered together, but this one is empty, save for an errant shoe. Arthur lunges for it at once, pushing Toby to the far corner- away from the on-coming crowd. He pulls his legs up onto the bench so he’s kneeling next to the small boy, and pulls off his coat completely to wrap Toby up in it.

Toby watches him warily.

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” Arthur promises him, “There’s going to be a loud noise alright? But then we’ll be able to find your parents and you can go back to them. Just stay here.”

Arthur highly doubts Toby will be going anywhere, and can’t quite tell whether he understood anything Arthur just said, not that it really matters anyway-

Arthur stands up on the bench above the crowd, draws his Glock from his waistband, snaps off the silencer and shoots once into the air. A warning shot.

 “PLEASE CAN EVERYONE CALM THE FUCK DOWN.”

The effect is astonishing. Silence descends, un-natural and out-of-place on a sinking ship. Even the children and babies are quiet. The sound of the gunshot echoed around the deck, bouncing off the walls and windows and terrifying everyone into a brief moment of horrified hush. The crowd’s collected breath rises in a white cloud above their heads, dissipating into the blackness.

“Thank you,” Arthur says uneasily, realising belatedly that he probably should have avoided swearing. _Fuck it_ , he thinks viciously all of a sudden, if women were going to fight each other to the death over a life-jacket, they could sure as hell cope with a little bit of profanity.

“Now, can we all please remind ourselves this is _not_ the fucking Titanic,” Arthur allows his voice to carry across the stunned crowd, “we may be missing a few crewmembers but that does _not_ mean we going to die. This is 21st century for god’s sake.”

Nobody protests, nobody speaks, nobody so much as _breaths_. _He’s right_ , Arthur thinks distractedly, because he was- Eames was perfectly right when he had highlighted the importance of authority and order at a time like this. Arthur could be authoritative. It was no different to being the Senior Officer of a Platoon of 24 men.  Not really.

“Okay. Right. Does anyone have cell signal?” Arthur tries, feeling a familiar sense of control calming his racing heart.

Tentative hands rise into the air. This was the cruise of millionaires. Of course a few dozen would have mobile phones expensive and hi-tech enough to have satellite signal wherever they were on the globe.

“Has anyone called the Emergency Services?”

Deathly silence. Faintly guilty this time. Calling for help, as basic and obvious idea as it seemed, had been lost on the chaotic madness of collective panic.

Arthur sighs. “Well, do it now. UK and US- either works. We _can_ all get out of this, but we’re going to need all the help we can get. The more they know, the faster they can send out ships and helicopters to us. They could easily be here in the next hour or two. There are plenty of life-boats here,” _lies but they don’t all need to know that_ , Arthur tells himself firmly, “but let’s have a little common decency- women and children onboard first. Leave all your possessions, grab a life vest, there are literally hundreds, and _please_ , there are lots of kids here. Let’s keep things calm can we?”

“Who put you in charge?” someone yells suddenly, and there are jeers of support and protest. Now that the silence has been broken, a few children begin to cry. Arthur’s blood runs cold. Surely they wouldn’t turn on him for speaking out-

“I did,” says a familiar voice behind him, and Arthur whips round so quickly he nearly falls over, to see Eames, _Eames_ for fuck’s sake, joining Arthur to stand on the bench. He’s wearing the Captain’s hat, and the authoritative voice is back.

“Aren’t you that brash American chap?” an elderly English man near the railing calls out, his eyes narrowing.

 _Shit_ , Arthur thinks. A murmur of unease ripples through the crowd.

“British Secret Service,” Eames responds smoothly, “though of course if I told you that I’d have to kill you.”

And Arthur can’t fucking _believe_ him, wants to hit him then kiss him all at once, but if anyone can pull goddamned James Bond off, _Eames_ can- and though the children don’t stop crying, and a woman nearest them brokenly whispers something about ‘dying anyway’, a few people actually _laugh_.

Out loud.

They glance over at Eames with an amused smile, or else look at each with thankful, hopeful expressions. They believe him.

 _No, they trust him,_ Arthur thinks faintly, _they trust him utterly and completely and it took me 10 years._

Eames suddenly leaves Arthur’s side, and for a second Arthur panics that he’s going to vanish into the crowd again-

But Eames stands up with Toby in his arms, and gives Arthur a significant look that’s part amused, part curious and part fond.

“He was lost, what else could I do?” Arthur mutters in his defence, and Eames just smiles wryly at him.

Arthur raises his voice to the crowd, “and while I’m here- this is Toby. He’s lost his parents and-“

A woman’s hysterical screech from nearby cuts Arthur off mid-sentence, and Toby’s wild-haired mother lunges for her son, snatching him from Eames’ arms and clutching him to her chest, sobbing mindlessly. She’s whispering something desperately under her breath, and after a few moments Arthur realises what she’s saying-

_“Thank you, my God, thank you so much, my son, my baby, thank you-“_

There is an uncomfortable cough from behind him, and Arthur turns to see the young officer they’d met on the stairs. He has lost his coat and his cap, but the uniform is unmistakeable.

“Thanks for that mate,” he says shakily, “didn’t think I was going to get them all to shut up.”

“Its fine,” Arthur replies, honestly.

“Mind if I takeover now?” It takes Arthur a beat to realise that the young crewmember is genuinely asking for his permission.

Arthur laughs despite himself, and steps down from the bench.

“Feel free.”

And then Arthur is being yanked to one side, pulled over to the wall and pressed against it, crowded in as Eames leans forward to press his forehead to Arthur’s, eyes closed, whispering, “Jesus Christ Arthur- I didn’t think I could love you anymore but you had to go and blow that theory out of the bloody water didn’t you? Pun intended.”

Arthur laughs breathlessly, leaning back against Eames, blissfully unaware for the moment of everything around them. The officer is organising people into lines and has been joined by a few other members of the crew, and it’s all going to be _fine-_

“Where did you go?” Arthur breathes into the space between them, and he senses rather than feels Eames tense up a little.

“I don’t know to be honest,” Eames admits, “one minute you were next to me and the next you’d had vanished and I couldn’t see you _anywhere-_ right up until I heard that gunshot and for  second- for a second I thought-“

Eames’ voice cracks and falls silent. Arthur doesn’t need to ask. He knows exactly what Eames thought. Instead, he reaches up beneath Eames’ coat and presses his palm against the warm, hard chest he finds there, right over Eames’ frantic heart- _I’m here you idiot, right here, now calm down._

Eames swallows and meets Arthur’s eye. He gives a sheepish half-smile.

“But then you got up on that bench and bloody hell, I thought I was going to die on the spot- you looked so horribly well-put together and in control and my God, you fucking _told_ them Arthur. And they _listened_ to you.”

Arthur has to fight to not turn away from Eames’ awed expression, fight against the heat in his cheeks-

“Senior Officer training remember?”

Eames chuckles, amused and a little shaky, and wonderfully familiar. “Of course I remember. I just forgot how _good_ you were- _are_. I’ve never told you that before.”

Arthur has never been able to deal with compliments. Criticisms, anger, blame and frustration- absolutely fine. But _praise._ Praise was something he rarely came by as a child who failed to meet his father’s expectations, as a teenager who was shunned by his classmates, as a student who never made the slightest impression on his professors, as a soldier in an Army that never extended conversation beyond barked orders and fierce reprimands- and yet here was Eames. Smart-mouthed, teasing, impossibly intelligent Eames, offering him such heartfelt and painfully honest admirations, and gazing at him so earnestly that Arthur’s head swam-

 _Fuck me- what I did I do to deserve this,_ he thinks distantly.

“I don’t think-“ Arthur starts stiltedly, but is cut off when a tall, thin man taps Eames sharply on the shoulder.

“We need some help with the boats mate- could you bear to leave him for a second?” He’s talking to Eames, but the sneer he sends in Arthur’s direction makes his blood boil with renewed anger.

“I think you’ll find-“ Eames begins hotly, and Arthur can tell he’s noticed the entire exchange-

“We’ll be right over,” Arthur says coolly, and he smiles a smile he knows is all teeth and no hint of friendly intentions, a smile that says _I’ve killed men in their dreams without batting an eyelid._

The tall man takes an automatic step back and Eames gives an unconvincing cough to hide his laughter.


	9. I Will Go Down With This Ship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur stalls momentarily, dumbfounded, then pulls himself together enough to turn round and look up.
> 
> Eames, the bastard, is standing on the deck, leaning almost casually against the railing. His expression is blank.

From there things descend into a begrudging organised chaos.

 The lines of women and children form behind each of the large lifeboats on deck, and the men help people climb into them and man the ropes. It’s still unbelievably noisy, but the screams and crying are less apparent, having reduced to constant low-level hubbub of noise. Every now and then the ship gives a slight lurch to remind them all that yes, in case they’d forgotten, they are still sinking- but Other than that, everything’s going relatively smoothly all things considered.

Arthur is on life-jacket duty, making sure everyone has one and then fitting them so tightly they actually have a hope of being useful. It’s slow work and his hands are painfully numb, but Arthur is glad for the chance to be useful at last.

Eames is not far away either, standing on the steps of each life-boat and helping women and children in. Arthur refuses to admit that it’s ridiculously sweet when Eames lifts a little girl up and says something quietly to her that makes her giggle, and tries his best to ignore it when Eames rests a hand on a heavily pregnant woman’s back for extra support as she climbs in.

Arthur realises that he is yet again going to have to go back to the drawing board when it comes to working Eames out, as he watches him offer every single person in turn a helping hand, a kind word or two, and a charming smile. _The man is incorrigible,_ Arthur thinks wryly, and ducks his face into his coat to hide his sudden smile.

But of course, nothing about this situation ever promised a happy ending for everyone.

Those men without a job linger at the far wall, and speculate uneasily at the lack of boats. More than several people have noticed, and though by and large Arthur thinks everyone’s keeping quiet for the sake of preserving the superficial peace a while longer, there is still the faint air of suppressed panic.

Arthur avoids looking over the railing of the ship for as long as possible, but when a lifejacket goes skidding across the damp, salt-sprayed deck, he’s forced to go over. He glances quickly over the side, steeling himself for the worse-

A cold iron fist tightens around his chest, and Arthur’s plummets. A hard, irrepressible shudder runs down his spine, and for one, horrible second- he can’t move, can’t think, can’t breathe-

 He’s paralysed by something that has taken merciless control of every fibre of his being.

Something that Arthur hasn’t felt so acutely in years.

Fear.

The water is less than 10 metres from the top deck, churning white froth and foam, eating up ship’s sides towards him. They have 20 minutes, tops, before the water leeches onto the deck, transparent deadly fingers reaching out across the wood, flooding every crack and crevice, before consuming the ship completely.

And all Arthur can think about is that fateful day, that first dream with project Somnacin, the dark water that had devoured him-

He shakes his head, once, hard, and moves quickly back over to the small group of concerned looking women. He deflects their queries with a polite, tight smile, and gets back to work.

The feeling of alarm grows in the background as the final few lines of women and children are cleared.

 There are about 300 men left on the deck, and now less than 8 24-seater lifeboats remain empty.

Arthur senses the instinctive surge of self-preservation in the crowd around him, so much stronger now that everyone’s families are safely off. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Eames start quickly in his direction-

And then the spell breaks.

Three hundred panic-stricken, life-hungry men, consumed by the inbred, selfish desire to save their own necks charge towards the remaining boats. Arthur is flung to one side, and a for a moment he’s completely disorientated, struggling to stay on his feet, ducking and twisting to try and get out of the way-

Strong fingers wrap around his elbow, and Arthur is dragged to the edge of the crowd. As soon as they’re out Arthur turns to frown at Eames, rubbing his elbow pointedly-

“Sorry pet,” Eames says, not sounding sorry at all, “I’d just thought we best get out of that before it got dirty.”

“I object to always being the one who is dragged,” Arthur says, brow furrowed, and Eames nods, going for mock-contrite but not quite managing it.

Arthur fights back a small smile.

“Oh piss off and follow me,” he mutters, and makes for the door leading back into the ship.

 

* * *

 

Inside, the ship is eerily quiet.

 Doors swing open wide on their hinges, lifts sit patiently, deceptively appealing though Arthur knows the electronics were destroyed hours ago, stray luggage is strewn across the carpet; shoes and children’s toys and other odd items left behind in the mad escape. The lights above them flicker warningly, and Arthur reaches for Eames’ wrist, pulling him forwards, deeper into the ship.

“I think I saw some boats on the other side of the ship yesterday,” Arthur says, voice hushed. It’s barely above a whisper but somehow it’s still too loud, almost rude in the deathly silence of the long corridors.

They move quickly through the main cafeteria, the ground sloping unnaturally beneath them, then the bar, some half-finished drinks balancing precariously on the bar-top, broken glass littering the floor. Eames steps on some by accident, and the shrill singing of cut-crystal on the mahogany floor makes Arthur wince.

“Sorry,” Eames murmurs, but Arthur just gestures towards the far door.

There is noise up ahead that makes Arthur’s heart quicken a notch. It’s a strange noise, one he can’t quite place, a churning, powerful roaring sound that sets off all sorts of warning bells in Arthur’s head.

“Eames--” he starts, not really sure of what he’s going to say-

But then they round the corner.

 The main stairwell, the beautiful, ornately carved oak staircase, and the plush red carpet of the main hall below is completely submerged in water. Their route, across the landing, down a small flight of stairs and then back up again to reach the opposite side is swamped, the water rapidly rising in a churning swell above neck depth.

They’re going to have to swim.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Arthur breathes to himself, his heart in his chest. He didn’t want to have to tell Eames about the accident, about that first dream, why he can’t do this, why he can’t possibly dive in-

Frantically, his mind rattles through different ways he could break the news that _actually_ , Eames’ image of him as strong, independent, fearless leader was so horribly misguided, so unavoidably false-

_I suppose now would be a pretty shit time to tell you that I haven’t even gone near a situation requiring swimming for 10 years right?_

“Arthur?” Eames asks quietly, and while his tone is carefully blank, his eyes betray his concern.

Arthur swallows, looking anywhere but at the churning sea before him.

“I can’t-“ he blurts out, “I’m sorry but I can’t, I can’t go in there, I know I should be able to, and it’s stupid, so _goddamned stupid-_ but it’s been years and I still can feel- I still can’t-“ Arthur stutters, stumbling over the words, his throat tight with the fear he feels so _fucking_ rarely-

 If only Eames would stop _looking_ at him like that.

“We’ll find another way,” Eames says simply, softly, and tugs Arthur away from the stairs.

As soon as the water is out of sight, Arthur lets out a shuddering breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He feels numb, weak, as though all the energy has been drained out of him, and he hates he can’t get over this, _still_ isn’t over this-

But then they’re running, sprinting down the corridor, and Arthur doesn’t have time to think about anything.

Eames shoulders the door at the end open and they burst out onto the Eastern main deck, the deck with more lifeboats, the deck with the key to their passage to safety.

They stop dead at the sight in front of them.

Hundreds of people- men, women, children, throng the deck, pushing and shouting, pressing towards the boats in an unstoppable force, and there is no order here, no chivalry, because they thought they’d saved everyone they could, and they were so _so_ wrong.

“Jesus _Christ_ , how did we not know there were so many more?” Eames asks aloud, angry, but Arthur can’t find it in himself to feel the same frustration, because there’s a boat a little further up, not quite full and about to leave the ship-

“Thank fuck,” Arthur whispers and he knows he’s being selfish, but he can’t lose Eames now, not after all this, not now that they _know,_ “Eames- look there’s a boat, if we got on now we could-“

“I won’t be joining you,” Eames says quickly, and pulls his hand out of Arthur’s.

Arthur turns to stare at him, “Why the fuck not?”                                                                                 

“Because a Captain goes down with his ship,” and Eames is completely serious. His lips may be turning blue with cold, and his hair may still be sleep-mussed, but his eyes are steely grey and holding steadfast.

“And since when were you the fucking Captain?” Arthur asks, incredulous.

“Since I found his hat lying 2 feet from his cold body,” Eames says sharply, pulling the hat out of his pocket,  “Arthur, there are people on here who haven’t got a hope,  people who have no idea what’s going on, you can’t expect me to leave them now.”

“Oh and I can leave can I?” Arthur fires back at him.

“You can do whatever you like,” Eames says gravely, and  _Jesus Christ_  it’s not even him anymore- “I’d really rather you went if it’s all the same to you- but I’m staying here.”

“What about the officers, the crewmembers?” Arthur demands, feeling desperate and why does Eames have to decide now to be such a fucking saint? “Why does it have to be you? Now is not the time to start living some fucking hero fantasy Eames, you’re an internationally wanted criminal, and this is real and people are going to  _die_ \- I’m going to die, you’re going to fucking  _die._ ”

Eames winces when Arthur’s voice catches, and _good_ Arthur thinks with a broken viciousness, because it was about time Eames realised how much Arthur cared, how the emotionless, workaholic robot, _Arthur_ \- with the unfaultable reputation, how when he loved somebody he did it without preamble, without holding back-

But then Eames just says, “You can’t save everyone Arthur, least of all me.” And his gaze meets Arthur’s eyes once before he glances away.

And something in Arthur snaps.

“But that’s just what we do isn’t it?” Arthur yells, voice cracking with fear and pain and _christ_ he wishes he didn’t love Eames as much as he does, but he _does_ , “All the fucking time- we save each other without thinking, without caring-- I’ve lost count of the times I’ve seen you take a bullet that was meant for me and it doesn’t even surprise me, because I’d fucking die for you too, I’d _die_ for you Eames-”

“ I’d die for you because every-fucking-fibre in my body tells me it’s the right thing to do- you’ve always had my back, don’t you even fucking _dare_ trying to deny it, you’ve got my back and I’ve got yours, and we have since the first day I met you. I’ve fucking _loved_ you since the day I met you even if I didn’t know it, _Christ_ you must have noticed, I was so obvious and I don’t even care what you think but you can’t deny that we save each other and that’s the way it is, and that’s the way it’s _always_ been.”

Eames stares at him for a long moment and Arthur doesn’t even want to take it back, doesn’t even care if it’s too much because it’s _true_ , all of it, and his eyes are stinging furiously with hot, shameful tears but Eames _has_ to know that-

But then Eames reaches out to him, drags him against his chest in one sharp move, strokes a shaking hand down Arthur’s cheek, jaw, neck, and whispers something like “Fucking _hell_ Arthur,” and his voice is _wrecked-_

And then they’re kissing.

It’s not what Arthur expected.

Eames kisses Arthur like he is something impossibly fragile, his hands cradling Arthur’s face with a sort of wariness that speaks of years of uncertainty, years of conflict and bickering and sexual attraction and underneath all that, something so much deeper,  more precious. Eames kisses now with such tenderness it makes Arthur want to cry.

After the initial shock and meltingly warm feeling that spreads through his entire body, Arthur starts kissing back. He fists his hands in the lapels of Eames’ coat, pushes back as much as he can, biting Eames’ bottom lip, trying to make him respond, because _you’re allowed Eames for god’s sake, any part of me you want, you can have it_ -

When they break away for air, Eames doesn’t let Arthur move more than a few inches away. He presses his forehead to Arthur’s and their shared, panting breaths fog the bitterly cold night air in the small space between them.

“If you’re staying, I’m staying with you,” Arthur whispers hoarsely, because if Eames refuses to be selfish, that’s the only other possible option.

He feels Eames nod.

 

* * *

 

They push through the crowd to the boats and try to reinstate some semblance of control. Except this time nobody listens.

They do the best they can.

Eames takes up position at the lowering mechanism of each lifeboat, and Arthur finds an underground hatch of lifejackets that he starts handing out, trying to spread as evenly as possible amongst a crowd who seem to sense the end is impending.

Arthur listens with gritted teeth as Eames reasons with the passengers- they can’t allow any more on this boat, the weight will be too great, not this one, go to the boat over there, mothers and children first sir- I’m sure you can appreciate that.

It’s horrible work, deciding who can go and who can’t, but somebody has to do it. Arthur finds himself fighting back young, rich, single men- eyes wide with fear, in favour of handing out the life jackets to the children. It disgusts him, watching these self-driven men push elderly women with their grandchildren out of the way. No amount of money can buy a little inbred chivalry.

Chivalry that Arthur had been more than willing to sacrifice if he and Eames could be granted safety.

The disgust morphs into a leaden guilt in the pit of his stomach, and yes, maybe Arthur can understand why these young couples are trying to subtly push in the front of the queue.

Suddenly, almost without Arthur realising it, they are down to the last boat.

A hush descends on the deck. 1 boat. At least 200 people still waiting. The tension builds as the first of the mothers and children are loaded on, a few men hurry onboard too, and then, just as it had on the other deck, something snaps.

The sudden crush of remaining passengers is overwhelming, and Arthur is shoved back against the railing, he can’t see Eames, doesn’t know the last place he saw him-

And then one moment Arthur is standing on the deck, surrounded by the last dregs of panicked people clambering onto the final life-boat ( _the last escape)_ and the next he is being bodily lifted, hauled up by strong arms around his waist, and near _thrown_ into the boat.

The life-boat shudders violently, but then the mechanical whir of the motors starts up and it begins to descend.

Arthur stalls momentarily, dumbfounded, then pulls himself together enough to turn round and look up.

Eames, the _bastard_ , is standing on the deck, leaning almost casually against the railing. His expression is blank.

“ _EAMES_! What the _fuck_ are you doing?” Arthur hollers, voice cracking, and he isn’t the only one. People next to him are screaming up at the relatives that didn’t quite make it, reaching out with desperate, useless hands, sobbing mindlessly with the kind of hysteria that leaves a cold weight in Arthur’s stomach.

Eames says nothing, and with a small, tight smile and a tip of his ridiculous hat- he disappears from view.

In that moment, Arthur hates Eames with such passion it knocks the breath out of him.

Because he always knew it would come to this.

 He always knew Eames would be the one to send him to his inevitable early grave.

 Because it doesn’t matter that Arthur is on the last life-boat, and it doesn’t matter that this is his last chance of safety, that this is the final helping hand that will be extended to him. It doesn’t matter that the dark water churning below scares the _shit_ out of him, that he’s never been more afraid in his entire life, and it sure as hell doesn’t matter that Arthur hasn’t swam for years.

Because Eames is going to be the one to kill him.

Purely for being so damnably worth dying for.

Arthur has about fourteen seconds before the boat hits the water. In the most irrational, instinctive and completely illogical decision of his life- he throws himself out of the life-boat and onto the railing that runs along the lowest deck of the ship.

Hands on the sinking ship reach for him at once, grabbing at his clothing, holding on tightly to his upper-arms, and these strangers, these people who have been left behind, haul him over the railings onto the wooden planks of the deck.

For a second, Arthur just lies there and fights to catch his breath.

He feels absurdly happy.

“You’re crazy,” says the man crouched next to him, “completely out of your goddamned mind.”

“Oh I’m well aware of that,” Arthur says mildly, staring up at the small circle of men around him.

One of them cracks a smile.

“You do realise that was the last life-boat?  The one you just jumped out of? What’s worth abandoning that for?” the man is in his late 50s, English, with greying hair and kind, faintly amused eyes. He looks vaguely familiar. _I think you already know_ , Arthur thinks.

“I left someone behind.”

The man smiles, and offers him a hand to his feet. Arthur turns to them, the 4 men who had saved him, who were by no sure means going to see another day- and yet who were calm and at ease, acceptant of their fate.

“Excuse me,” Arthur says, “I have someone I need to murder,” and he turns to set off at a sprint down the decking.

Water is everywhere now, leaking up through the floorboards, smashing through the glass windows, pressing against doors, carrying furniture out into the corridors. Arthur tries not to think about it. Instead, he focuses on finding the stairs.

But everywhere looks horribly similar, and paintings or statues that Arthur might have recognised have fallen off their walls and every corridor is the same- blank, empty and slowly filling with freezing cold salt water.

The water seeps into Arthur’s shoes, saturating his socks in seconds then creeping up his trouser legs, bitingly cold and rising by the minute.

At last Arthur spots something he recognises, a paned glass door, a sweeping red carpet beneath the floating cups and tablecloths.

The World Cuisine Restaurant.

Arthur fights to calm his heart, which is beating wildly behind his ribs, because _thank god,_ he knows where he is, and he can work his way up from here to the top deck running along the starboard side of the ship, to where Eames is, the _idiot_ -

Arthur halts abruptly at the sound of music.

Barely audible, over the twinkling of glasses shattering as they slip from their shelves, over the powerful pounding of the water rising up from the cabin decks, a [gentle, subdued melody](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DKScIzz7kYk-), played, unmistakeably, on the piano Arthur had sat at less than 5 hours ago.

The pianist, still dressed in his simple dark suit, sits straight-backed at the _Bosendorfer_ , playing as though nothing has changed; as though the restaurant isn’t now empty of diners, chairs and tables over-turned by the pressing water, paintings from the walls floating forlornly around the small stage. Half a metre or so above the ground, the piano is safe for the time being, but Arthur can see the way it’s going, see the way the water rises, lapping at the steps-

He stands there, helpless, unable to do anything but listen, as the piece sings across the room, the chords soft and careful, the melody growing higher and higher-

“They never did let me play my own music,” the pianist says simply, glancing up briefly to look over at Arthur. “They always wanted music for the restaurant.”

He loses himself for a moment, hands caressing the keys, eyes closing momentarily, before he comes to senses again and shoots Arthur a pointed look.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says.

“Neither should you,” Arthur can already tell what the man has decided to do.

“Come with me,” he adds quietly.

“Ah, but you have your rather charming partner,” the pianist smiles down at the keys, “and I have my piano. I can’t leave her after all we’ve gone through to get here.”

 _But you’re going to die,_ Arthur thinks wildly, _surely you know that_.

But he does. Of course he does. Just as the men who had pulled Arthur aboard knew, just as Eames had known, had accepted. And none of them were afraid.

Because death, Arthur realises with a strange calmness, wasn’t the end. It wasn’t the worse eventually. It was far worse a fate to die without a cause, without a purpose.

This man would die doing the thing he loved the most, the men on the deck cared only that their families were safe, that all the children were aboard boats- waiting to be rescued, and Eames, _E_ ames damn him had willingly accepted his fate in the knowledge that he had secured Arthur’s by sacrificing his own.

“What’s your name?” Arthur asks impulsively, because he has to know, and if this man never speaks to another living soul, at least Arthur can remember him properly.

“James,” says James, smiling again for all the world as though they were meeting on the street for the first time, “James Horner.”

Arthur nods, throat tight.

“It’s beautiful,” he manages, “your composition.”

And he turns to leave.

The dying chords of the piece resound around the restaurant as the door is forced shut behind him by the oncoming water.


	10. Arthur says Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Arthur, what the hell are you doing?” Eames shouts from the top of the stairs, and Arthur glances round to take in his face drained of all colour, and his shirt sleeve steadily staining red with blood-

Arthur spots Eames from the far end of the deck, and the anger melts into fleeting relief, before dissipating at once.

 Eames’ posture is entirely wrong.

His shoulders are too tense, his head ducked low, conversing quietly with  a young, panic-stricken crew member, and Arthur wants to hit him all over again because the _idiot-_

Arthur starts towards him, fully intending to make his presence known-

The crack of a gunshot stops him in his tracks, has him automatically reaching for his own gun still tucked in his waistband.

It takes Arthur a long second to realise that _Eames_ is the one who stumbles in surprise, that _Eames_ is suddenly clutching his arm to his chest, that _Eames_ is the one dragging the young officer down behind a box of life jackets, expression contorted in sudden pain-

A dark figure out of the corner of Arthur’s vision flickers through a door leading off the deck.

Arthur doesn’t even have to think about it- he starts to run.

White noise fills his ears, blood pounding and adrenalin pulsing through his veins, setting every tired limb and numbed extremity alight and suddenly he’s _alive_ -

Alive and raging.

Because he doesn’t even have to see the figure's face to know it’s the man from the library, the man from the evening before up on the deck, one of Ryan’s men, one of the hired few to detonate the explosions in the engine room, to cut free the empty lifeboats, to smash the signal room and murder the crew in cold blood. He doesn’t need to see any proof to know that Ryan wanted Arthur and Eames dead as part of the deal, and kept on one or two on the sinking ship to make sure the deed was done, and he damned well doesn’t need to think twice about the fact that anyone that shoots at Eames with a purposefully aimed injury-shot like that deserves to _die._

Arthur skips clattering down the stairs in favour of grabbing the banister in both hands and vaulting it, falling to the floor two flights below. The water, now knee-deep and moving with a fierce current, splashes up around him, and Arthur can’t see him, but knows instinctively where the man went, where he would go if he was trying to lure someone in; to the left and down into the flooded cabin corridors below.

“ _Arthur,_ what the _hell_ are you doing?” Eames shouts from the top of the stairs, and Arthur glances round to take in his face drained of all colour and his shirt sleeve, steadily staining red with blood-

“Avenging your near-death,” he yells back up at him, voice shaking with anger, “And fuck off because you don’t get to speak to me right now,”  and he sets off down the corridor, gun held out in front of him.

He can’t bring himself to care what Eames thinks, he’s still too angry, angry that Eames tried to save him, angry that he got himself _shot_ the second Arthur wasn’t there, angry that he loves Eames so much it hurts, and it’s only going to make him hurt more-

“Arthur he’s not fucking worth it-“ Eames says from behind him, and now he sounds angry and, well, _good_ Arthur thinks viciously, because they always did work better sparking off each other like this-

“And neither am I but that didn’t stop you did it?” he shoots back, and rounds the corner-

The shot comes out of nowhere, narrowly missing Arthur’s knee and ricocheting off the water.

Eames yanks him back behind the wall, slamming Arthur back up against it to face him, and he’s too pale, far too pale, drenched to the skin, hair plastered to his forehead, and his eyes are wide, pupils blown with adrenalin, and _fuck_ why must Arthur always want to kiss him for god’s sake-

 “How dare you put me on that boat,” he hisses instead, twisting violently away from Eames’ grip and failing miserably because it’s too cold and his body’s not responding to him properly-

“I never promised I’d play fair darling-“ Eames fires back, an unhappy smirk playing on his lips, “and you seem to have got yourself out of that little scheme anyway-“

“Oh come on. I didn’t hit your boyfriend that hard, surely you’ve got some fight left?” the voice is cold, mocking and carries down the silent corridor easily. It sends a flash of white hot anger down Arthur’s spine so overwhelming for a moment he stops fighting and Eames’ grip loosens at once.

They stay silent for a long moment, waiting for something else, each harsh breath visible in the biting air.

“He’s playing with you,” Eames murmurs, and the anger has gone, his eyes are impossibly sincere, imploring, “He’s playing with you because he wants to kill you. Wants to kill us both.”

 _I’d like to see him try,_ Arthur thinks, anger burning through his blood like fire, and he jerks his elbow into Eames’ weak arm, supressing the guilt when Eames gasps in pain, and wrenches free completely from his grasp. Before Eames can so much as recover, he’s sprinting away down the corridor, following the sounds of splashing from up ahead.

Bullets sing across the water’s surface, peppering the wall behind him with holes and Arthur flings himself into the relative shelter of a doorway, aiming round the frame to return fire, his entire being completely focused on that one objective-

All at once, the lights go out.

The corridor is plunged into darkness, and for a second Arthur stays perfectly still, not daring to breath, straining his eyes to adapt to the half-light, straining his ears for the faintest movement, the slightest unnatural splash-

“Ah,” says the disembodied voice sly and amused and shudderingly empty, “this makes for a far more interesting game.” There is a sudden splash, and Arthur darts forward again, moving through the water as silently as he can, his gun raised. If this megalomaniac can survive in the dark, he sure as hell can too-

“Not much of a game when you’re the one who’s going to fucking _die,_ ” Arthur calls down the corridor.

The answering chuckle, echoing off the walls, makes his throat go dry.

The ship lurches beneath their feet and there is another great groan of metal being crushed out of place. Doors along the corridor splinter under the growing weight, and the water flows faster and stronger as more portholes are smashed, more windows shattered. They’re descending quickly now, but Arthur can’t find it in him to be scared. He’s not afraid of the water anymore.

He has a cause.

The sporadic gun-fire battle takes them deeper and deeper into the ship until all at once Arthur realises they’ve reached the main stairwell again. Here the water is thigh deep, and it’s slow going through the near-darkness, dodging falling pillars and floating chairs and paintings. Every now and then a bullet hits the water dangerously close to Arthur, but they never quite make contact. It’s all down to luck though, and Arthur knows better than some that luck doesn’t last forever.

“Is he bleeding badly?” the voice calls softly from behind him and _fuck_ Arthur’s heart nearly stops because he thought _he’d_ been the one behind, “I suppose it doesn’t matter really- seeing as neither of you’ve got long left anyway. Still, I can imagine that a bullet to the shoulder blade hurts like a bitch.” And there’s the laugh again, malicious, devoid of any real humour, and fucking hell what kind of maniacs does Ryan employ-

“Don’t you _dare_ talk about him like that-“ Arthur starts, voice _shaking_ with fury, and he knows he shouldn’t be reacting like this, knows he should be keeping a poker face, but then a cold hand is clamping over his mouth, and Eames is pulling him into the shadows.

“Buggering fuck Arthur keep your mouth _shut_ ,” Eames hisses, and Arthur fights back the instinct to twist Eames’ arm until it breaks, stilling under his hands, and why is Eames still even _here-_

“This isn’t some bloody mind game you know- he just wants you dead,” Eames says tightly, his hand moving to hold Arthur’s wrist tightly, “it’s not something for you to work out. It’s- it’s not something I’m willing to lose you to.”

“You should have thought about that before you nearly got yourself shot,” Arthur whispers viciously back, “ _did_ get yourself shot. And since when did you care what I think?”

Even in the shadows, Arthur watches Eames’ jaw clench, his eyes narrow, _furious_. “Arthur, are you bloody _mental?_ I’m thinking about keeping you _alive,_ since that major instinct seems to have failed you as of late; for fuck’s sake, we’ve been through this enough bloody times now, when is it going to enter your thick skull that your life means more to me than my own? More to me than it apparently does to you?”

Arthur’s heart stutters briefly because _oh_ \- no one has said anything like that to him before, and he should probably reply with a similar sentiment, because it’s true after all, there was a reason he’d followed a crazed mad man into the bowls of a sinking ship- but he can’t, because there’s something bothering him-

 “You can’t keep me safe all the time,” he says, suddenly quiet, “If we’re going to do this _,_ you can’t put me out of danger every time something goes wrong and expect me not to come after you. You shouldn’t have put me on that boat.”

Eames lets out a harsh breath.  It’s warm against Arthur’s numbed cheek.

“I know, I know,” he mutters, not meeting Arthur’s eye, “and I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help myself. Now can we please leave this lunatic to his watery grave and go out onto the deck? The officers have reported sightings of emergency helicopters and navy ships on the horizon. They’ve set off all the distress flares we’ve got,” he glances up, a shadow of a grin, “it’s not the end, my friend.”

Arthur rolls his eyes in the darkness, smiling a little in return, and Jesus Christ, he hadn’t noticed before, but his entire body is now shaking with cold-

But that’s nothing to the way Eames is holding his arm, hand curled close to his chest, his shoulder strangely hunched.

“Your arm?” Arthur demands at once, spreading a fleeting, concerned hand across Eames’ shoulder.

Eames winces minutely.

“Happens to have been scratched rather dramatically by a bullet,” he whispers, smiling, “Honestly? No worse than the McCabe job.”

Arthur frowns, seeming to remember that Eames had needed 9 stitches after the McCabe job and the idiotic, jacked up _asshole_ that thought it was socially acceptable to stab people at dinner parties.

A bullet whizzes past Arthur’s ear so close he feels the heat of it singe his skin, before embedding itself in the deep purple wall behind him.

Eames stares at him, horrified, then yanks them both down to the floor as another flurry of bullets decorates the wall with holes.

In this position, nearly on his knees, the water reaches Arthur’s throat. It’s so cold the singing, biting pain of the icy water almost immediately gives way to an aching numbness that makes every movement feel as though he’s walking through treacle.

“There’s a fire escape,” Arthur says, voice breathy as his lungs feel as though they are being slowly frozen, “along this wall. Far corner.”

“Right,” Eames says, teeth chattering, “Talley ho then.”

The noise of water pouring in through the surrounding doors and gurgling up from the lower floors is so loud that Arthur doesn’t need to try and minimise the sound of his splashing. He lunges, half-swimming, half-walking, half-crawling, towards the dark shadowy space of the fire escape. He doesn’t think about the raising water, doesn’t think how by the time he reaches the door, he’s standing completely upright and the water is lapping at his chest. Dosen’t think for a second that Ryan’s hired psychopath has magically disappeared.

“Fuck,” and Eames is trying to yank the door open with his good arm. To no effect.

“It must be the pressure of the water on this side,” he says, voice strangely quiet, “We can’t get out this way.”

Arthur lets his mind go utterly blank.

Because this isn’t happening.

They have two options, wait for the water levels on the other side to rise so the pressure is equalised, and most likely drown in the process, or, open the door now-

And suddenly Arthur is six years old again, strapped in the back of his mother’s ancient Land Rover, listening to her sing along to Queen. They’re driving through BC, back from Arthur’s grandparents and the lakes are beautiful, the trees towering above them, the mountains bluey purple, and his mother turns round in the front seat, beaming at him, and says-

“You looking forward to seeing your Daddy again honey?” And Arthur nods dutifully, smiling back because she has such an infectious smile, a smile that makes everyone around her grin a little too.

But then, the Rover hits the corner wrong, and his mother isn’t looking at the road, and they’re falling, suspended horribly in the few metres of air above the lake, falling, falling, the dark green water rushing up to meet them and she’s screaming something at him, even before they hit the lake, even before water starts pouring into the old vehicle through every crack and crevice-

“ _-open your window, Arthur! Open your window!-“_

And so he does, because she asked.

They hadn’t been able to get him to speak for weeks. He’d stopped listening at school, stopped watching TV, stopped playing with his toys, stopped tickling baby Rachel to watch her squirm and giggle. And his mother didn’t smile for a long time either, her guilt constant, ever present, reminded every day of her near fatal mistake by Arthur’s carefully blank face, by his night-time terrors that frequently woke the neighbours.

The car, the lake, the green water, and this time a faulty window had been Arthur’s first death in the dreamscape. It had been slow and dark and he’d woken up shaking all over in a cold sweat. He always turned down jobs in BC, never went swimming for pleasure- yet here he is, Eames a bloody, shivering mess beside him, and like _hell_ was he going to die this way.

Because there’s a thin, decorative window running down the side of the door.

Arthur flicks the safety off his Glock, takes a deep breath and ducks into the freezing water before he can think twice about it, ignoring Eames’ frantic questions. It closes over his head, burning his scalp and stinging his eyes- the cold numbing all thought processes as though it could seep into his brain as well.

Arthur feels blindly against the door for the indent in the wood, the smooth glass, straining his fogged vision for the change of material-

And then he shoots a neat hole in the base of the window frame.

Arthur tears himself up and out of the water, gasping for breath, shaking his head to clear it, turning his back to the door and kicking through the window with the back of his heel.

The glass shatters, and the water sucks through the sudden available space like a vortex- pouring into the stairwell, seeking out every crack and crevice, pulling Arthur against the door-

He forces himself to stand back, and, using one foot against the wall for leverage, yanks the door open with both hands. Eames moves to help and together they pull the door back far enough that it’s being pressed against the wall by the pressure of the water.

Eames pauses a second too long, staring across at Arthur with a faintly astounded expression.

“How on god's earth did you think of all that-?” He starts, awed, and Arthur grins a bit because he rarely gets to surprise Eames –

“Less talking more swimming,” he says, and shoves Eames first through the door.

And then, just as Arthur moves to follow Eames, to close the door behind him, he spots it.  A dancing dark shadow from the opposite flight of stairs in his peripheral, a flicker a movement, a glint of metal in the half-light-

The searing pain that ratchets up his side is so intense for a second he can’t breathe. He fights against the blistering agony with a kind of delirious sort of satisfaction, the kind he gets when watching jobs he knew would go bad explode and melt into flames around him. Because Ryan’s hired assassin had been hired for a reason, and even on a sinking ship, even against _them_ , he had managed to make a hit on them both.

Arthur grits his teeth and stumbles into the stairwell, yanking the door shut through the water behind him.

“Fucking hell that was too bloody close,” Eames says, breathless and oblivious, “two flights up and we’re on the deck.”

Arthur nods, not trusting himself to speak.

 He blinks away the stinging wetness in his eyes and tells himself that Eames doesn’t need to know right now.

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur says nothing as they climb the stairs, though each step is excruciating.

Arthur says nothing as they come out onto the deck, greeted by horrified crewmembers who’d heard the gunshots, asking furtive questions that Eames deflects in a very Bond-ish sort of way.

Arthur says nothing as the boat gives a final, deadly, lurch, and everyone half leaps and half falls over the side into the churning water, screams and shouts filling the air, and swims as fast as possible _away_.

Arthur says nothing as they wait, bobbing in the icy sea, and watch the ship sink below the water’s surface, sucking any other debris down with it.

Arthur says nothing as a shout goes out, triumphant, half-crazed, as a couple of the lifeboats that had been cut lose drift in their direction.

Arthur says nothing as Eames hauls him into one of the boats with his good arm, grinning at him and whispering, “I knew it, I knew we’d be fine- can you see those lights? They’re the Naval Ships darling.”

He says nothing as the first few bodies are noticed from the life-boat, floating face down in the dark water, and Eames goes very still, very quiet.

He says nothing because the pain is so great, like liquid fire burning in his veins, like a weight crushing his lungs, so much worse than he’s ever felt, it's impossible to ignore, impossible to fight-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more part to go folks! But if you like the way I roll keep a look out- I'm going to start uploading my many, many, many other fics when I get chance :)


	11. Tout est Bien qui finit Bien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FINAL PART
> 
> “I love you,” he says, “I love you and I’ve loved you for 10 years and I know it’s not safe for us, not safe for anyone, but I’m not giving that up. Not now. ”
> 
>  (Warning: This is absolutely choca-block with H/C and fluff because I thought it was about time.)

 

“ _Arthur!_ Arthur don’t you fucking _dare_ pass out on me now _-”_

The words are hazy, distant, familiar, and there are other voices too, concerned and strange, but Arthur’s down far too deep to come back up now-

 _Don’t worry Eames, I’m fine, it hurts less down here-_ he wants to say, but then Eames’ trembling hands reach down his side and _fuck_ the agony is blinding, white hot, and Arthur arches helplessly away from the pressure, biting his lip until he can taste coppery blood-

“Jesus Christ,” he hears Eames whisper, and he peels back Arthur’s coat until it’s just his shirt, stuck wetly, bright red, to his skin, “You didn’t say a thing you idiot...You didn’t say a _fucking thing.”_

“Wouldn’t have made much difference,” Arthur tries to say, but his words slur and god, it’s just too much effort to keep his eyes open, and it’s dark anyway-

The hand is there again on his side, pressing more insistently and Arthur flinches away, shaking his head, _pleading_ -

“Hey, hey, shush,” Eames says, the words broken and desperate, and he’s reaching for Arthur’s hand, shaking, “I’m sorry love, but you need to stay awake for me, we’re getting there, the boat’s coming-“

“Okay,” Arthur gasps, arms trembling from the exertion of holding himself away from Eames, “okay,” he says again, and slumps against the side of the boat.

A coat is draped across him, and Arthur looks up to see that it’s the English man, with the greying hair and twinkling smile.

“I won’t ask what happened son,” he says, and his eyes still shine a little even though he’s not smiling this time, “because I don’t need a lie. You just look a little cold right now.”

 _So do you_ , Arthur wants to say, _everyone is fucking freezing, it’s nearly 4am and we’re in the middle of the Atlantic and it’s **April**_ **-**

Instead, Eames turns to the man and says, “Thank you,” with such sincerity Arthur doesn’t know where to look.

 

He looks at the sky.

 

It’s not night anymore. The stars are still there, winking faintly up in the darkness, tiny pin pricks of light, but they’re not so obvious now-

The sun is beginning to rise. Not quite over the horizon yet, tendrils of warm, pinkish glow reach out into the blackness, switching off each star, dimming the moon- stretching further and further, out across the sea, and it’s blue over there, a bright blinding blue that makes you want to look away, and _Eames_ , it’s going to be such a beautiful day-

“I’m sure it is,” Eames murmurs softly, and Arthur realises he’s said that last bit out loud.

 _It’s the whole bleeding out thing_ , Arthur decides sensibly, but Eames shoots him a sharp look that tells him he said that aloud too.

Arthur decides to watch Eames instead. Watch the way the dawning sun turns his hair to gold, dries the dampness from his skin, claims each tiny droplet of water from his eyelashes, how Eames’ eyes are so impossibly blue in this light, making a challenge to the sky lining the horizon.

Eames seems unable to take his eyes off Arthur for more than a minute or so. He stares out across the water towards the approaching boats, but his gaze continually flits back to meet Arthur’s. His eyes are pained.

Arthur musters up a weak smile for him, because he hates that look in Eames’ eye, the one that speaks of a pain that’s new, fresh, unchartered water- the emotional agony of seeing someone you love hurt like he is-

 _If this even is love,_ Arthur thinks faintly, _I’ve never been in love before. I think I love you but I don’t even know what that means, not really._

Eames stares at him suddenly, eyes wide, and ah, of course, Arthur’s internal monologue isn’t co-operating at the moment.

But then Eames seems to crumple a little.

"Don't look at me like that," Arthur says softly.

Eames blinks, grimaces. "Like what?"

"Like I'm breaking your heart right now."

Eames closes his eyes and doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

“This is why-“ he starts, his voice hoarse, “this is why people don’t- In dream sharing, people...they- Dom and Mal-“

And Arthur’s heart aches but the corners of his vision is going hazy, and he doesn’t want to argue this, doesn’t want to think about what Eames is saying, what he’s suggesting.

“Shh,” he says weakly, and reaches for Eames’ hand, the hand that’s currently keeping pressure on his side, “It’ll all be fine, it will, I promise.“

And then Arthur blacks out.

 

* * *

 

 

When Arthur wakes, he’s curled up against Eames’ front on a hard floor, a huge, tartan blanket over his shoulders.

“Where the hell are we,” Arthur mumbles tiredly into Eames’ chest.

Or at least, that’s what he tries to say. It comes out more as a jumbled mess of vowels.

“That,” Eames says quietly from somewhere above him, “will be the drugs. They did dose you up, ah, rather liberally.” Arthur can feel each word reverberate in Eames’ chest.

“Where?” Arthur tries again, pulling back a little but not really willing to leave the warm cocoon that is the blanket, Eames, and the floor. His head feels like lead, and it takes a tumultuous effort to blink open his eyes.

Eames is smiling tentatively at him.

“Hello you,” he says softly, “you had me a little scared back there you know.”

That’s utter bollocks of course. Eames was terrified; more scared than Arthur has ever seen him.

“’m sorry,” and Arthur ducks back against Eames’ chest because it really is very warm there and this way he doesn’t have to deal with the carefully casual look in Eames’ eyes.

“We’re in Belfast in case you wanted to know. They ran out of rooms in the hospital, so once you’d been opped on they said we could crash here- the kids are apparently delighted that their school has been closed so it can house wounded civilians.” There is a hint of amusement in Eames’ voice, and Arthur savours it, holds onto it like a totem-

_They made it. They’re alright. They’re back on dry land-_

Arthur rolls over abruptly onto his back and while the searing ache in his abdomen is blinding, at least he can get his bearings from this angle. They’re in the corner of what looks to be a school gymnasium; a basket ball hoop hangs incongrously on the wall above them.

“Oh for goodness sake Arthur,” Eames mutters irritably, “stop doing yourself an injury and keep bloody _still_. You're lucky that bullet only caught your side but _honestly_ -”

“But- Identities, they- questions, we- we need to move, before,” Arthur manages, breathless against the pain, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead.

Eames props himself up onto his good elbow next to him, and eyes Arthur sceptically.

“I’m offended you need ask. A charming young medic named Fergal has been suitably informed of our ticket identities, and has also taken the hint that we’re to be left alone. There was quite a bit of fuss at your arrival- some of the passengers recognised you I believe, even if you were white as a sheet and drenched in blood, and they wanted to ‘thank the man that saved them-’”

“Oh fuck,” Arthur groans, closing his eyes again.

“-And we will be needing to move on before the police start making their rounds, but Ariadne has decided to be in charge of transporting us out of here, and I was too sensible to argue,” Eames’ lips quirk in a half-smile, “Even so that still leaves us with a good hour or two for you to stop slurring so obviously.”

“Piss off,” Arthur mutters.

“Oh well I’m glad we’re managing profanity- that’s an improvement at least-“

“I think swearing is pretty reasonable when you’ve taken a bullet,” Arthur huffs pointedly.

Eames looks like someone's slapped him, and _damn it_ why can’t Arthur keep his mouth shut?

“Arthur," Eames starts, warily, "do you remember-“

“Being on the lifeboat? Yes, up until I passed out, all of it.”

_...this is why people don’t- In dream sharing, people...they- Dom and Mal-_

Arthur goes oddly cold.

Eames runs a hand through his dishevelled hair, still not making eye contact, and he’s chewing his lip, a nervous tell he picked up years ago and Arthur knows what he’s going to say, but can’t bear to hear it, wants Eames to know the whole truth before he drops Arthur the way they both know he should-

“I love you,” he says, “I love you and I’ve loved you for 10 years and I know it’s not safe for us, not safe for anyone, but I’m not giving that up. Not now. ”

Eames stares at him, shell-shocked.

“I-,” he starts inelegantly, but Arthur cuts him off, feeling a rising tide of emotion, of honesty, and it’s probably the drugs but he doesn’t have the energy to try and hold it in.

“-And I’m sorry I’ve been such a dick about it, because I fucking _have_ , I’m shit at stuff like this- and I can’t promise you anything, but I can promise you I’ll try, I’ll fucking _try,_ because you’re the only thing in my life worth trying for, even if you’re an arrogant prick sometimes, because I don’t want to go back to being alone-“

Eames leans suddenly over him, pressing his forehead briefly to Arthur’s, and Arthur can feel his chest expanding and contracting on a deep, silent sigh-

“You’re not alone, fuck Arthur, you’re not alone,” he whispers, voice shredded, and then they’re kissing again, just like they had on the boat, and it’s so heavenly Arthur loses himself entirely for a long, blissful moment.

And then he has to go and flinch.

Eames pulls back instantly, but he’s grinning deliriously, and his eyes are bright-

“Ah, forgot about the near-fatal bullet wound,” he says lightly.

“Yeah they can be a bitch sometimes,” and Arthur yanks Eames coat, trying to pull him back down.

Eames ignores him in favour of lying back down along his side, pressing a kiss to the underside of Arthur’s neck instead.

“Just so you know...the feeling is entirely mutual,” he murmurs.

“Okay,” Arthur says, smiling, “good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for anyone who has read/kudosed/commented/bookmarked or kept up with this! It's much appreciated and you are all fabulous ^_^
> 
> Final opinions/constructive critique is welcomed as always in the comments, and as I said, if you liked this do keep an eye out for more fic :)


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